


Den of Beasts

by H3L



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-04-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H3L/pseuds/H3L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya returns to Westeros with the intent of reuniting with her family and meets and old friend along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Return

**Author's Note:**

> This was previously posted by me on Fanfiction.net. 
> 
> I do not have a beta so all mistakes are by me and while I try to be as thorough as possible I know I've missed things. Please let me know if you notice something! Comments and criticism are always welcome!
> 
> Obviously, I own nothing.

Arya Stark couldn’t believe what she’d heard. He was alive. Not only had he survived the war (when she was sure he would be dead) but he was engaged to marry her sister (who’d she’d also assumed was too stupid to survive the war). It was all very quaint, she supposed. He was fast becoming a war hero-a knight proper-not highborn necessarily, but noble. Sansa was the new Lady of Winterfell, first in the line of succession before herself or Bran based on the old ways. People believed in Sansa Stark and in the North’s fledgling alliance with the fierce Dragon Queen Daenarys the First of Her Name, Protector of the Realm and Mother of Dragons. “Titles, titles, titles,” Arya muttered to herself as her garron trod over a small snow bank. She remembered King Robert saying the same under his breath to her father once when a messenger from Dorne was introducing a letter from a prince of some sort or another. She always secretly agreed with him-bloody useless things, titles. 

The couple was about as well-matched as anyone these days. It was just as well, she thought, the winter is long and cold when you are forced to sleep alone. She would know. She’d been no one for so long and it’s hard to be held when you’re no one. 

Arya couldn’t help but doubt the rumors. The Sansa she remembered was hardly beastly. The people of the Free Cities are hot-blooded and prone to exaggeration so Arya imagined anything hardy enough to survive the winter wilds of her home make would intrigue them. It is the same with any word that comes out of the Summer Isles. To the free peoples everything is exotic and venomous and full of danger regardless of climate or reality. The enjoy it; talking about it, boasting of it and singing and laughing and fighting. They love the stories. If anything though, Sansa reminded Arya of a tiny bird, all plumage and twittering songs. Not some beastly, wild, Northern Queen who rode Direwolves and had slain wights.

Arya leaned forward on her garron and wondered briefly if Sansa would even be happy she’d come. She hadn’t much thought about it when she heard the news-she’d simply got up and gone. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives-that was what her father told her, all those years ago. So of course, she would reunite with her pack, it was her only course of action. Arya knew many people assumed her dead and yet she had learned that her sister had sent out numerous ravens and knights to search for her regardless. It didn’t matter that she and Sansa were so different, had gotten along so awfully, her older sister had searched for her. Surely she wouldn’t be angry if Arya showed up, even if she was in the garb of a Braavo and carried more steel on her than most knights. 

Arya pushed her hair from her face as she rode, head down, below a thicket of tangled and icy branches. She had done her part in this war of kings and queens and thrones. She’d spent 3 years doing her part: mainly, unlike her mother, her father, and her brother Robb, she stayed out of it. For that she had lived. She had studied to become a faceless man in the House of Black and White. She had learned many things, worn many faces, been many places, and in her own small way she even helped the war effort in general, and Sansa specifically, by removing a great adversary. Yet it had all seemed somehow removed. She’d seen death, she had been death, but she had not seen a true battle. She had not been there when the Queen’s dragons shredded the Others at the Wall. She had not heard the terrible cries of war or seen the battlefields soaked with blood and bathed in ice and fire. She had not watched as men hacked and slashed at each other with steel and nothing between them but wooden shields and rusted armor. What she had seen was the last breath of Cersei Lannister. For that, at least, she was grateful.

In the last three years she had come back to Westeros only once, to give a certain woman a certain gift. Cersei Lannister had paid a debt to the Iron Bank with her life. To her credit the debt had been incurred long before she had been Queen Regent but she was the first regent who had refused to pay. No one refuses to repay a debt to the Iron Bank, not even those who sit on the Iron Throne. The irony of a Lannister dying for a debt wasn’t lost on Arya either. The saying goes, after all, “A Lannister always pays his debts.” Arya made an honest woman of Cersei Lannister that day.

Giving the gift to Cersei Lannister was the reason she was no longer a servant of the Many-Faced God. Perhaps, she admitted to herself, not the only reason. It was true though, Arya had not been meant to kill her. She had known the Queen Regent and when asked Arya said she had not known her, which was not the way. Still that could have been over-looked as an apprentice’s very great and foolish mistake. The real reason was that instead of giving selflessly giving Cersei Lannister the gift, the Queen Regent’s death had been a gift of sweetness for Arya. That was her true test. Valar Morghulis. All men must die, and so they had let her kill the Queen regardless of the fact that they knew Arya was acquainted with the Queen Regent. Valar Dohaeris. All men must serve, but she could not serve the Many-Faced God. Instead she had served herself. She smiled, as she watched Cersei Lannister fall. She felt joy and sweet revenge. Jaqen had been right; she was not no one, she was someone. She was Arya Stark of Winterfell-titles, titles, titles. She had taken joy from giving the gift and so they had turned her out. They took her new life from her, as easily as she striped off her acolyte robes, and gave her old life back to her. They took her faces and left her only two things, one iron coin to buy her passage back to Westeros and knowledge. They could not take from her what she learned and, it seemed, did not wish to.

She bid goodbye to the Kindly Man and the Waif not two days after her return from Casterly Rock. While the Kindly man was ambivalent as always and Izembaro stoic, the Waif had seemed truly sad when she said, “you cannot serve.” Arya left them on the steps of the House of Black and White and headed for the Purple Harbor. 

She did not turn back. 

For her return to Westeros she chose a barge that would bring her into port at the Bite, her goal was the port towns of The Neck, closest to the Kingsroad. She may not have been able to put on a new face as she once did, but Arya Stark still had enough tricks to fool most any sailor. The Bite was equidistant to Riverrun and Winterfell in opposite directions and so it was there that she felt she would have the most strategic advantage. Once there she could get what information she could, find a suitable mount, and formulate a true plan. She needed to know where her allies would be and she figured if she heard nothing of Winterfell, though it would break her heart to leave it until Spring, she could make for Riverrun. It would be hard to keep and hold a fortress such as Winterfell in the chill winter drifts and icy winds of a Northern winter for an inexperienced garrison and Riverrun is far enough south that it would always be occupied. She couldn’t be sure who ruled there but she knew the small folk around would be sympathetic to a Tully Granddaughter, especially after the events that had transpired there.

Fortunately that wasn’t what happened, instead she heard of Sansa’s holding of Winterfell and her betrothal. The small folk of Tarth had been practically humming with gossip that washed down the Greenfork and sped along the Kingsroad. It was all about the Maid of Tarth’s invitation to the wedding and the rumor she would be accompanied by none other than Ser Jaime of the Queensguard. Arya wouldn’t have noticed at all if Jaime Lannister had not been mentioned. The patrons of this particular inn, The Greenways, found it interesting that Brienne, who it appeared was the sole heir to Evenfall Hall after her father Selwyn died, was still refusing to marry. She was always, they said, in constant companionship with Ser Jaime and his nephew the squire and former boy king, Tommen. Arya also learned that Tommen’s sister Myrcella Lannister was with her betrothed, a Trystane Martell, in Dorne. Apparently the Lannisters had survived the wrath of the Dragon Queen. It was an interesting development. She’d learned several new things and they were becoming stranger and stranger the more Arya heard. 

She snuggled deeper in the seat in her dark corner, out of the way, and chewed her bread and drank her mead with her eyes closed and her ears open. 

Apparently when the Dragon Queen came across the sea she brought with her the tiniest Lannister, Tyrion the Imp. He had killed his father, Arya had not heard why, and swore allegiance to the Dragon Queen’s cause. He convinced the, at the time, would be Queen Daenarys that although Jaime had killed her father for his madness he had no hand in the killing of her brother, nephews, niece or good sister. Upon their return to Westeros the Imp also convinced his brother and the small King Tommen to bend the knee, an easy task according to the bar patrons. With Cersei, Lord Tywin, and Kevan Lannister (found in his chamber with several knife wounds and apparently no assailant) dead that was all there was to it. No disloyal Lannisters left in King’s Landing. Tyrion gave up Casterly Rock to remain in King’s Landing and advise Her Grace. Jaime, it seemed, the Queen was content to leave on the island of Tarth, at Evenfall Hall, with the Lady Brienne. He was still an acting member of the Queensguard but truly only in name. Tommen squired for his “uncle” and Myrcella remained in Dorne with her betrothed and the Martell’s in the relative safety of Sunspear. The Lannisters were redeemed and, though they held no land, they were once again very powerful. Arya wished she were more surprised.

A cat came up and crawled between her legs before settling himself. He was a tom by the looks of it. Cats disliked skittish people, which was why they always sat near Arya even when she didn’t smell of cockles. She was always calm. He stretched beside her feet languidly and she could sense his hazy knowledge of food in the air and a mouse creeping along the far wall of the pub. She came back to herself when she heard a man tell of how he had saddled the fresh horses they requested this morning before they left Shoalstone, the particular town she was in. The party had only just been through there.

It was then that she determined she would try and catch the company on their way to Winterfell. She had hoped to spend more time in the Riverlands if she could but this was too good of a chance to pass up. A grand entrance, her family, a host already heading to the very same place, and she had missed her home all the while she’d been gone. 

They would surely be traveling with a small garrison of knights she thought, at least 15. It would be easier to make her provisions last if she supplemented from their stores and if anything attacked them it would be easy to break off and slip away while they took the damage. Doing this would also allow her to assess the dangers more easily and perhaps gather more information. She had not heard tell of Bran or Rickon at the inn, unsurprisingly, but she also hadn’t heard talk of the Wall or Jon Snow. It had been three years she was in Braavos and although Arya knew she was a flowered woman grown of six and ten she could hardly imagine how her siblings would have changed. She still pictured Rickon as she left him, clutching her mother’s skirt and sniffling as her and her sister followed their father south.

Arya had abandoned the size and speed of a courser or destrier for a smaller, stouter mare with a broad back and thick hindquarters. She carried Arya quickly and easily through the snow which was most likely why she was able to catch up with Lady Brienne’s host so quickly. It was as they watered their horses that Arya came upon them. The party rode large and somewhat ungainly coursers, a mistake a Northman would never make. The size meant the horses would need to drink much and their legs were not thick enough for snow travel and the beasts needed to have the snow removed from their hooves often. 

At first she was startled to not see a maid anywhere in the party and feared that they were not the travelers she had been looking for. Arya assumed they would have a litter with them at least but as she crept closer she identified one of the knights in full armor as being a lady, the maid in question she assumed. She was no more a lady than Arya. She wore a man’s attire of breeches and a leather jerkin beneath her armor and on the breast a shield of yellow suns on rose quartered with white crescents on blue, the crest of Tarth. It was only when she removed her thick outer cloak and breast plate that Arya was able to see her clearly. There were no other characteristics in her when hooded that would have given any inclination as to her being the Lady Brienne. She was large, broad and had a wide gate. Arya noticed she also had a thick configuration of scars on one cheek as though she had been savaged by a beast. The maid was speaking softly to a man with thick golden hair and similar attire, with the addition of a brilliantly white cloak. He could only be Ser Jaime Lannister of the Queensguard. Arya had yet to see his face but the reflection of the snow on his hair made a golden glow around his head. He looked as she would expect the Warrior to look only she knew him to be less trustworthy.

The other knights, of whom there were only five and not fifteen, were all too busy checking their saddles, provisions, and armor to notice her as she slipped towards camp. Arya crept closer to hear the conversation between Lady Brienne and the Kingslayer. 

“I am unsure.” The lady’s voice was softer than Arya expected and more timid. Arya was surprised to see Ser Jaime crookedly smile at the woman.

“I don’t know why. You were invited, so you go. House Tarth has always been for House Baratheon in the past and the Baratheon’s love nothing so much as the Starks. With Storms End and even Highgarden both Lordless the Lady of Evenfall must go. As the Queen’s women would say, it is known. And, the groom, I don’t know much about him truthfully even though you would think I would. I know he’s loyal at the least. What I do know, Lady, is you bent your knee to the Dragon Queen and she granted the North to Winterfell.”

“I know that is the truth and yet I feel as though it is not my place. I am, unsuited, for this.”

“You’re not suited to get pissed and sing loudly at a wedding in the freezing cold? And here I heard you call yourself knight. I know what you’re going to say wench, but Tarly and Tyrell are cunts and you are a knight so act like one.”

“Ser!” The Maid of Tarth’s agitation was immediate. “Ser Loras was my brother in arms, you will not disgrace his name and Maester Samwell is a trusted advisor to Lord Jon.”

“I’m sorry, Randell Tarly and Mace Tyrell are cunts. Better?” 

“Much, thank you.” She huffed and turned to walk away but he caught her arm easily enough.

“Now, you know I did not mean it that way. Lady Sansa will be a good Queen in the North, it is right that you go. Besides, I long to see my brother and he shall be there. I would like for you to meet him as well, my Lady. I think he will rather like you.”

“I doubt that.”

“Pardon me but he never met a maid he didn’t like, least ways one as clever or reviled as himself. He feels a kinship I think.” She hit him carelessly on the arm but they continued talking in lower tones as they moved towards the slow running trickle of water. Arya didn’t know what was stranger, watching the Kingslayer cheer the tall women or hearing them talk about Sansa being Queen in the North. A title similar to that had gotten her brother and her mother killed. She moved to creep closer but a twig snapped behind her and a chill ran up her spine. She turned on her heel and came face to face with a blade as long as it was sharp. It was a fine, castle-forged, piece of steel, sharpened to a cruel point and directed towards her neck.

She cursed at her own stupidity. One of the guards had been standing watch and had noticed her creeping towards the party. The knight was tall and broad with thick, dark armor on and a black, well-crafted helm with a visor in the shape of a fish. She couldn’t see his eyes very well but she thought they were black. 

“Who are you and what is your business, man?” His voice was dull and slow, she imagined it was like his wits. She cocked her head and squinted a minute before answering. She did have on white breeches, a grey doublet and a large fur cloak with a hood that covered her head. No wonder he thought her a man, only a smallish one it seemed.

“My business is my own Ser. I might speak to your Lord Commander well enough.” She assumed that it would be the Kingslayer in his white cloak and perhaps revealing herself would be best. What a great wedding gift it would be to Sansa and her beloved for the Maid of Tarth to bring back the lost Arya Stark. That was, unless they killed her. The idea seemed doubtful but not impossible.

“I asked your name and your business, lad.” He still seemed to miss that she was in fact a women even though she had spoken in what was, she thought, a quite feminine sounding voice. She also spoke in a rather Braavosi tinged, but noble none-the-less accent. Yes, he was a slow thing. . 

Before she could answer they were interrupted by a shout from the direction of the small camp. She had wondered when they would notice. The two of them were arguing rather close to the camp and Evenfall’s precious Maid of Tarth. If Arya could hear their whispers earlier than it only stood to reason that they could hear her conversation with the slow knight as well.

“Alyn!”

It was Brienne she could safely assume. No knight would speak in so high and clear a tone.

“Here, m’lady.” Alyn cried, “I’ve someone who was outside of camp, Ser-m’lady.” Her captor shouted back. 

As the Kingslayer and Brienne strode over, accompanied by another knight in similar armor and with a drawn sword, Alyn began gibbering again. “He was creeping about the camp my Lord-” The new knight looked down at her before standing beside her in case she made to run away. This one had a helm with antlers coming out of the top of it in a very imposing manner. He also had a large war hammer strapped to his hip where the Kingslayer seemed only to carry a dirk and did not bother to put on his helm at all. “…he said he wanted to speak with the Lord Commander.”

“That is enough Ser Alyn. Thank you.” The knight stopped speaking and backed away a few steps as the Kingslayer stepped in front of Arya.

He curiously peered down at her and she bent her head at the neck to look up at him as she mockingly curtsied in the small drift of snow she was standing in. With the new knight and Brienne, holding what looked to be a Valyrian steel blade, on either side of him, she had to concede that he probably needed no more than a dirk. The new knight nodded to Ser Jaime and set a hand on her shoulder, “Speak, this is Ser Jaime Lannister of the Queensguard, he commands this company.” 

The voice she heard was a staggering blow. Arya had heard it countless times in her sleeping and waking dreams. She had wanted to hear it again upon her return to Westeros, desperately, but hadn’t thought she would. After word of the battles and famines and loss of life she had hardly allowed herself to hope. For true she had been shocked to hear of her sisters survival, she had scarce just begun to hope her brothers may have survived and then this too? It seemed too lucky. 

Her heart thudded in her chest without control but she remained still and schooled her features blank. She peered out of the corner of her eye, out from under her hood, to better see the knight’s face. What she saw was as startling as the voice. Blue eyes through the visor of his helm, dark blue eyes, with coal black lashes. She stood, smooth as silk, and flipped her fur hood back to reveal herself.


	2. A Strange Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya is revealed!

“First, I am a woman grown, not some lad.” She looked pointedly at the first knight before turning to Brienne and the Kingslayer. “I did request to speak to the Lord Commander but I apologize, Ser, my business is with Brienne of Tarth and,” she paused and prayed silently before finishing, “Ser Gendry Waters.” 

The knight straightened by her side and she knew, it was him. Ser Jaime stared at Arya squinting. She knew she would be recognized now, if not by the Kingslayer then by Gendry. She didn’t care, they had no reason to kill her and if they did she knew she could count on Gendry to help her get away. She hoped she could, leastways. Not that she thought she needed it but it was nice to have. 

The Kingslayer smiled then, “you seek a council with a highborn lady and one of her knights? What an odd stranger you are, a scrawny, little lady in breeches and a fur cloak spying on weary travelers. And yet, I know you, little wolf.” Arya turned to the woman because Jaime had confirmed that he knew her and that was all she needed. He could corroborate her identity with Gendry and in this one case it would be useful. 

Brienne had large teeth and a broad, freckled face with big, pale-blue eyes that seemed welcoming. The color reminded her of lily water. Arya decided it best to be forthright and looked at the lady directly as she voiced her request. 

“I wish, if you are willing and able, for you to escort me to the wedding of my sister, Sansa Stark. She is to be married in a sennight to Ser Sandor Clegane.” 

Brienne’s intake of breath was fast and made a short whistle that, Arya gathered from the smirk the Kingslayer gave the Lady, uncharacteristic. “You claim to be Arya Stark?” She said but Jaime replied before Arya had a chance to.

“Oh, she is Arya Stark. I would know that likeness anywhere in Westeros. There was once a war fought for a face not dissimilar.” There was a moment of silence before Gendry abruptly turned and stalked away. The Kingslayer watched after the retreating knight’s back before settling his gaze on Arya in an appraising sort of way. It was as though she were a fresh sword given for inspection. “It seems Ser Gendry still knows your likeness as well. To me you look less like the little whelp that chased cats across King’s Landing that I remember and more like King Robert’s dead Lady.” He bent at the waist and examined her at eye-level. “My, you do favor the Starks though.”

“Yes,” she said shortly. While she was both intrigued and unnerved by the very large Brienne and her golden Lannister companion, Arya could only think of Gendry. She wished very much to go to him and explain herself, her absence. It was an odd feeling and her feet itched with impatience to move. She did not want to be interrogated but she had learned patience in the House of Black and White.

“What happened to your father, it was dishonorable and…I am truly sorry.” Arya looked at him, momentarily stunned. She could tell when people lied; it was in their voices and their eyes and the twitches of their muscles. Ser Jaime was not lying. In fact, since she had been confronted outside their camp, not one person had lied to her. “Cersei had intended him to live out his days on the Wall, he would have been a great help against the Others. It was Joffrey, Tyrion said the boy was-”

“Prince Joffrey was a monster.” Arya was surprised by the amount of venom in her voice. She decided she would say no more on the subject, the subjugation of her family was still irritatingly painful. She immediately turned to Lady Brienne who bowed awkwardly. “What say you, my lady?”

“If it is true then I cannot, in good conscience, deny help to you on your journey to Winterfell. I once promised your mother that I would deliver her daughters home and so the Seven have granted me a final chance to fulfill that oath.” The maid stood, Arya wouldn’t believe it if she hadn’t seen it happen, a little taller as she spoke the words. Her hands rested on the hilt of her blade as she inclined her head towards Arya.

“Thank you, my Lady.” Mustering the entire knowledge she had of lady-like skills and courtesies she, which was based entirely on what she remembered from watching her sister Arya curtsied again, without mocking, to the lady. She knew she looked no less awkward than Brienne did and it was a bizarre comfort. “I’m sorry but, I would go to Gendry now, if I may? We have been apart long and I would see him” 

“You mean Ser Gendry, don’t you?” The Kingslayer smirked as he addressed her. Arya nodded agitatedly and took a step back to distance herself. “Then, of course, feel free. We move soon, he’ll help with your things. You have a horse?” Arya nodded again quickly as she headed in the direction Gendry had gone. “Good, we have an hour yet. By all means, tell Ser Gendry we ride in one hour and that you are to be his ward and him your protector. Every traveling lady on the Kingsroad these days needs a companion knight, I’m sure your sister would agree, and since I’m already taken you’ll have to settle for Ser Gendry. Tonight you will have to tell me how you two met, I am curious.” Arya hardly heard what he was saying over the buzz in her ears. She nodded and turned on her heel. As she began to wind her way through the trees she thought she heard Ser Jaime chuckle but she ignored it. 

The snow wasn’t too deep and she easily followed his trail through the brush. She was smooth as silk, quick as a cat, but it didn’t matter. When she did find Gendry, he was staring into the distance of snow covered branches and obviously waiting for her. His helm and gloves were off, his thick black hair stood out against the slate sky. He was taller then she remembered, and broader of shoulder. She remembered watching him work, the sweat pouring down his chest in the firelight. His large arms glistening as he wrought and worked the steel. She remembered how his cool eyes reflected the fury of the fire and how it made them sparkle in the dim light of the smithy. He would be twenty now she figured hastily, or thereabouts. He didn’t even turn to look at her when he spoke. She wondered if he enjoyed being a knight more then a blacksmith. Arya couldn’t see he how he could.

“We looked for you…the Brotherhood, me and Harwin.”

“I know.”

“I always looked. They stopped, but I…” He trailed off but she knew he had never stopped looking. Just how she had never quite forgot about him. He was her only friend for so long and she his. Until he left her.

“Why are you with-” she hesitated, did she want to know why he was with a Lannister? Did she want to bring up old wars? She never got a chance to finish as Gendry continued.

“Brienne was looking for you too.” His voice was quiet and his ears were growing red. “I thought-she almost died because of Lady Stoneheart, when they cut her down I went with her to look for you too. If anyone was going to find you, it was her but you were gone. I stayed on at Evenfall Hall after the war and when I heard about the wedding of your sister and the Hound…I asked the Lord Commander to put me on the guard.”

“Gendry.” She walked around to look him in the face. His eyes were bright and angry and Arya was taken aback. His face was the opposite of his tone, pained and stiff. His hair hung just past his brows which were furrowed as he stared at her. She had longed to see his face so much, she hadn’t realized until he was before her. She took a step toward him and peered up into his eyes because she had missed them the most. “I never meant-”

“I was going to kill the Hound! I was going to the wedding to kill him!” He words came out in an angry burst and he dropped his helm and grabbed her arms firmly. “I thought you were dead and I was going to kill him for it, for you.” She wasn’t sure she could break from his grip but she struggled anyway. “You don’t understand, do you?” 

“Tell me then, stupid boy, tell me how you were going to kill him!” She tried to say it as calmly as she could but her heart was beating wildly and she could feel the blood rushing up her neck and flooding her face. He was so close to her and so full of rage and fury that she couldn’t help but want to shrink beneath his gaze. She hadn’t forgotten the way his voice made her feel or how strong he was. She had never been able to forget how it felt to be held by him or to laugh with him, or at him. Her breathe left her as he pulled her closer.

He eased his head down and at anytime she could have stopped him but she didn’t want to. He wrapped his arms around her and held her against him. She hugged him back with a childish excitement she hadn’t felt in years. 

“I’m not a boy,” he grumbled, “I’m a knight.”

She laughed into his Jerkin, the smell of leather and smoke filling her nostrils. She thought Sansa would be jealous of Arya’s Ser Gendry. He was a true knight and her true friend. Arya knew how few of those there were in the world and she snuggled closer to hers. 

Too soon they broke apart and Gendry, red-faced, suggested they head back to camp. Arya, smirking, agreed and told him of his appointment as her lord protector. He gruffly agreed with Ser Jaime and she shoved him into a snow drift. 

They walked back to camp beside each other, quiet but happy. She went to unhitch her garron and bring her pack to camp as he went to secure a place for her in the line. When that was finished they were once again on the move. She rode beside Lady Brienne while Gendry rode on her other side. She was happy the Lady kept the Kingslayer occupied because it left her free to catch up more with Gendry and avoid awkward questions from the Lannister. 

Gendry told her about seeing Hot Pie recently and how large he had become, about Lem getting married, Tom’s many bastards, and Beric Dondarrion finally dying. He told her about her brothers too. All of them were alive and, it was rumored, were going to be at the wedding. Jon was coming from Kings Landing where he worked with Ser Jaime’s brother, the Imp, for Queen Daenarys and her lover Edric Storm, a bastard of King Robert. Rickon was almost 8 years old and as Gendry told it, suitably wild and staying permanently at Winterfell. Sansa, he said, was having trouble with Rickon as her little brother had spent a lot of time in the care of a wildling woman during the war. Bran had to travel to the wedding as he was living in the bogs with the Frog People. He entertained her with stories that the small folk told about Bran being a warg and taking over people’s minds and being green but how, he figured, it was because Sansa wanted to marry him to the Bog Lady, Meera, and didn’t want it contested. All of it sounded strange and wonderful to her. She thought she would come home to no one, and even in Westeros she would be no one, but there were still people here. She had family here, that knew and loved Arya Stark. Her keen thirst for knowledge was whetted and she begged of him more news and he obliged. He told her of the Dragons and the Wall and Kings Landing and the Queen of Thorns and Loras Tyrell’s death on Dragonstone and all the people she had forgotten about and those she had never known. He told her of the stone princess at the Wall and the Lady of Fire, priestess of the God of Light. Arya hung on every word the same way she did when old Nan would tell her of the giants beyond the Wall or the Dragons and mines of Old Valyria.

Her good fortune wouldn’t last though and before long they were coming to an inn called the Biting Boar and Ser Jaime cornered the companions, offering Arya a place beside him at dinner. It seemed he wanted to talk. She grimaced.

“My apologies Ser, but I had planned to eat with Ser Gendry this evening.” Her dismissal only made Ser Jaime smile wider.

“Why, Ser Gendry always sups with me and the wench here,” he gestured flippantly at the Maid of Tarth who was dutifully unsaddling her horse. “I’m sure he would agree that you would still be able to speak with him on one side while regaling myself with your tales on the other. In fact, I believe you promised us the story of how you met our indomitable Master Armourer besides. Ser Gendry can help you tell that tale, I think.” Were they in the habit of eating with there knights? Perhaps his status as Master Armourer granted him special privilege. Her father had always treated Mikken well, though he never supped at the family table. She wasn’t sure if that would change while the men were on the road. It seemed everything about the Kingslayer and Lady Brienne surprised her. Gendry hadn’t mentioned he was a Master Armourer for Evenfall Hall either, surprise.

Gendry was too busy blushing, it seemed, to notice anything odd about the request so Arya decided it couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t everyday that she ate dinner with a Lannister but Gendry seemed to trust him, as did the Lady Brienne. She had to admit that she hadn’t known him too well before her leaving, only that he was the Kingslayer and the twin brother of Queen Cersei, a royal bitch. Arya had her revenge on Cersei though, and she knew she must learn to separate the two. She also wanted to know more about the Dragon Queen, a topic Gendry appeared to be less versed in.

“That’s fine then.” He’d done her a service in vouching for her identity and she’d decided to trust him just a little bit. He’d even apologized for Joffrey, though there weren’t enough apologies in Westeros and the Seven Hells for that monster. Although, she thought, if the boy were truly Jaime’s son then he should be apologizing for him. Arya was also curious to watch Ser Jaime and the Lady Brienne sup together. The two seem inseparable to her and were oft talking too lowly for any of the other riders in the party to participate. It was…peculiar.


	3. From Dusk 'til Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Getting to know you, getting to know all about you."

Dinner was a calm affair. Five of the men sat at one table, they were the ones she’d seen at the camp before she was come upon by Ser Alyn (Haigh she learned was his surname, and Gendry said the boy was Frey on his mothers side. Gendry confessed to holding it against him even though he’d been but a squire when the Red Wedding took place and not with the Freys). The table held two knights she did not know, two squires, one being the older squire Pod who seemed a bit taken with Lady Brienne, and Ser Alyn himself. Jaime, Arya noticed, found Pod’s deference very funny and tended to make japes at Pod’s expense much to the squire’s and Brienne’s annoyance. Arya sat with Gendry on her right and the Kingslayer on her left. She was happy for this at least because she was able to focus her attention on Lady Brienne, who sat opposite her and whom held much of Arya’s interest. 

The woman wore breeches and a tunic as Arya did and when riding wore boiled leather under thick, well polished armour. Her armour, Arya noted, was made to fit a Lady as the breast plate was clearly formed for womanly endowments. Arya wondered if Gendry had formed that particular chest piece and if he blushed the whole of the time he hammered it. Arya also noticed the heavily rippled Valyrian steel blade that Brienne kept with her at all times. It was a beautiful sword, wide and long with black and red ripples throughout the steel. As far as Arya could recall the House of Tarth did not possess a Valyrian steel blade but she knew necessity made robbers of many. 

“Your blade, is that Valyrian steel? I was not aware Tarth had such a blade.” Arya said while peering at Brienne’s hip where the sword was currently sheathed. Arya wouldn’t even had seen it if Brienne had not been polishing it at their last water break. “My father had one like it called Ice. It was a Greatsword as wide as two of those and taller than I was when Ilyn Payne used it at the Sept of Baelor.” 

Arya watched as the color drained from Jaime’s face. She didn’t know why he seemed so upset but is she had to guess it was because his beast of an inbred son had ordered the murder of her father. Brienne nodded gravely. “Yes, Oathkeeper is the blades name. It was giving to me when I was charged with finding yourself and your sister. I intend to give it to Sandor Clegane at the wedding, although Jaime believes I should not.”

“Because it is yours.” The Kingslayer’s green eyes searched the Lady’s blue ones before turning back to Arya. “She is an honorable wench though and you’re keep at Winterfell has not been without a Valyrian steel blade since its erection. She’ll not see the new King and Queen in the North without one.” That was that, his tone said. It was as if they had the argument already and he had lost, bitterly.

As it turned out the Biting Boar actually did serve boar as well as mashed parsnips and sweet mead. As they began dinner she saw that the Kingslayer only ate with one hand, the other sat gloved and still in his lap. Gendry also only ate with one hand but it was because the other was busy kneading the flesh of her leg that was closest to him. His palm was so large and his fingers so long that they covered the top of her thigh and his fingertips were tucked between her legs. She wiggled in her seat as she ate, feeling warm and anxious. That would not do, but it seemed no matter how she shifted he would not let go. It was as though he was afraid she would run off and disappear. Arya was happy to be reunited with her friend but was finding it hard to concentrate on her dinner with his hand, hot and heavy, on her leg.

Brienne began conversation, surprising since the large woman had not spoken up much, aside from her declaration about Oathkeeper before. All the same, her face and features seemed intensely curious about Arya. “Lady Arya, I must know, where have you been these three years? I was charged to look for you and no one in Westeros I spoke to had seen hide nor hair of you. There was a pretender married to the Bastard of Bolton before he was killed who turned out to be a steward’s whelp and Ser Gendry, it seems, did not tell me all he knew.” She then looked pointedly at the knight beside Arya, who kept his eyes on his plate and food in his mouth. 

“It is because I have been in Braavos.” Gendry’s grip on her thigh tightened a moment but he released it so quickly she almost didn’t feel the sting. “I’ve spent the last three years there, studying. Gendry did not know, not until just now.”

“Ser Gendry, m’lady. I thought I detected a bit of the Braavosi tilt to your speech where there was once only the dulcet tones of the North.” Jaime casually reached across her to the flagon of mead in the center of the table and refilled everyone’s glasses. “So you’ve learned to speak Braavosi then. How in seven hells did you get there and what did you do for money?”

“I did learn to speak Braavosi,” she also spoke High Valyrian and Lyseni but they never asked, “Mostly I sold cockles at Ragman’s Harbor and fought with Bravos at the docks.” It wasn’t a lie. She could have lied, she had complete rule of her face and knew how to lie well. As the Waif had once told her though, what is the point of lying when you may speak truth? 

“Cockles?” Brienne queried, “How did you come to that? How did you even get there?” The large maiden seemed genuinely interested in the tale as was the Kingslayer. Gendry was steadfastly eating and the only indication he had been listening was the twitch of his fingers on her leg. She would attempt to leave him out of the story as much as she could because she didn’t exactly know what they knew. She never did find out why Queen Cersei had wanted him. She was dead but the threat could still linger Arya knew.

“After I left the Hound on the banks of the Trident, I bought passage out of the Saltpans to Braavos. There, to pay my way, I worked for a Braavosi man named Brusco. I sold cockles and oysters with his daughters at the ports. Since I was Westerosi I had to work Ragman’s Harbor where foreign traders and sailors come in to Bravos and outside the Happy Port, which is a brothel.”

“You traveled with Sandor Clegane?” Jaime said this at the same time Gendry sputtered out the word, “Brothel?!” It was Jaime she listened to. 

“He kidnapped me. I had been traveling with the Brotherhood without Banners,”

“Ahh, at last, how you met our indomitable Armourer.” Jaime leaned back and she saw his other hand slip towards Brienne. “That is where Brienne picked him up, at the inn watching over those lost children.”

“No. We traveled together before that. When I left Kings Landing, the day my father died, I met Gendry. The Hound kidnapped me when I was with the Brotherhood to try and ransom me off to my brother. By the time we reached Riverrun, Robb and Mother were already dead.”

Jaime nodded, “The Red Wedding they call it. They violated guest right, with the help of my father no less. Be assured Lady, they were all punished for it. My Lord Father died of a crossbow arrow to the groin thanks to my younger brother and the Late Lord Frey and the rest of his cantankerous brood were slain at the Battle of Wet Willow. The last living Freys are, I’m happy to say, well in hand. One, the son of Edmure Tully and thus well watched at Riverrun. Denys Tully is his name, a boy of three years and your cousin. He’s not got much of the Frey about him at all. The other, Ser Alyn Haigh, whom you’ve met, sits at the next table under mine own eye and our lady’s.”

Arya was shocked by the sudden input of information. “Gendry spoke of Haigh but, Uncle Edmure had a son?” 

Jaime shrugged, “He got one by that Frey he married the night your brother died. Out of all death there is life, I suppose.”

“Where is he?” Arya realized her demand sounded somewhat frenzied but it was as though every conversation yielded more life back into her body.

“Don’t worry,” Brienne interjected, “he’s lord of Riverrun, as he should be and if I’m not mistaken Lady Sansa insisted both he and Denys be at the wedding.” 

“Also,” said Jaime, “I’d prefer it and so would my younger brother, if at the wedding you didn’t go on sharing that business about our Lord Father. If Tywin Lannister were alive he would be the first to tell you Tyrion was no son of his. All dwarfs are bastards in the eyes of their fathers as Tyrion so often likes to say. Still, men call him Kinslayer and he is not so gracious as I when it comes to name-calling.” He shrugged and downed his cup. As he refilled his own mead he refilled hers as well. “The people who matter in the company, which are only the people at this table, already know and don’t care, so I speak freely. The nuptials will be quite different. ” 

Brienne smiled and ran her hand gently over his knuckles before pulling it quickly back into her lap and catching Arya’s eye. “You never said how you and Ser Gendry know each other, only that you met-in Kings Landing.”

By then Gendry’s hand had relaxed and he was finished with his supper so Arya turned to him and gestured toward him the way mummers do when it’s someone’s turn to speak. She didn’t know why the smith hadn’t told them why he wanted to go to Winterfell. Moreover why had he never told anyone that they were known to each other? She thought it best if he told it to avoid her misspeaking and he could leave out what he would at his leisure. 

Gendry did not get the hint. “Go on,” She said when he didn’t respond. He looked up at the table and Arya watched as the slight flush of mead became a more pronounced shade of crimson. His fingers twitched on her thigh and he set down his fork.

“I met her on the Kingsroad in Kings Landing, both heading toward the Wall. She threatened to skewer a boy like a pig and I thought she was going to do it so I stepped in. Noticed she was carrying castle forged steel and decided to look after her since she was the smallest. Turned out she didn’t need me much.” 

Fine, if he was going to be stubborn about it she would tell it her way. 

“We were going to the Wall with Yoren of the Nights’ Watch.”

“To take the Black?” That was Brienne, all confusion and curiosity. “Girls aren’t allowed to take the Black.”

“No, so I was a boy. I called myself Arry and cut my hair. No one even asked.”

“Not no one,” said Gendry finally, “I knew.” He was drinking so his face was half hidden but she could see his smirk around the rim of the tankard. 

“He did figure it out eventually,” She admitted, “So I told it true after he asked me to pull out my cock and take a piss if I could.” Arya watched, satisfied, as an arc of mead shot across the table from Gendry’s mouth. 

Jaime laughed so hard he bumped his hand on the table and Brienne blushed crimson from the top of her broad forehead to the edge of her tunic. Gendry only squeezed her thigh tighter and for longer than before as he swiped a sleeve across his wet lips. 

“He was very upset when I told him I was a highborn lady. He started apologizing and calling me m’lady straight away, didn’t you?” He blushed and scowled.

“A bastard boy still knows his courtesies m’lady.” He said irritably. He didn’t sound like he was in the mood for using them much, she thought. Well good, for some reason she didn’t like to be referred to as m’lady. It felt wrong, for Arya Stark of Winterfell was no lady.

She only laughed as Jaime commended Gendry on his courtesies and for dealing with her being that she was, in his words, an “obstinate, headstrong child with more dirt about her than sense.”

After they had a few more drinks and everyone had shared a few more stories, Jaime and Brienne having just finished one about Jaime rescuing her from a Bear pit, Arya finally decided to ask about his hand. It had bothered her for the entire meal and she remembered it not moving while they talked in the wood beside the Kingsroad either. He didn’t use it to hold his reigns even. She thought, as he’d reached across her, she saw a sliver of gold beneath his glove.

“Not to be improper but, what is wrong with your hand, Ser?” He turned and held up his good hand, wiggling his fingers.

“Why, nothing at all little wolfling, why do you ask?”

She furrowed her brow and pointed, “No, the other hand.” 

With that he lifted his other arm up and removed his glove. Beneath it was a solid gold hand, stiff and glittering in the lamplight. “I have no other hand. Just this bit of ridiculousness. Not a hand at all.”

Arya was drawn in and carefully examined the golden hand before Jaime replaced the glove. Gendry’s knuckles, she knew, would be white with their grip if she looked down but she didn’t. She was not afraid of a one-handed Lannister. 

“How?” Was all she said, she tried to sound as clear and calm as possible. Jaime, for his part didn’t seem upset but Brienne’s eyes blazed, though the women said nothing.

“Many a captive of Vargo Hoat’s Bloody Mummers lost limbs. I was not the first nor was I the last, I imagine.” 

Arya cringed at the thought, she’d met Vargo Hoat and she knew how deep the filth of his sell swords ran. She remembered as if she were at Harrenhal only yesterday, the stink and blood. They had called him the goat because it rhymed with his last name-being noble doesn’t always mean you’re clever. In fact, she had used his enjoyment for limb removal as a way to get Gendry to come with her when she left. Vargo Hoat had been good for something. He must have seen her sour look because he leaned over and patted her shoulder gingerly with his remaining hand.

“It’s nothing to me now-I’ve become rather used to it. Besides which it keeps me in the company of sweet Lady Brienne since she is so fond of broken things.” Brienne blushed prettily, in fact, Arya thought she looked better when she flushed because it softened the hard planes of her face and made her startling blue eyes all the brighter. Gendry gulped down his mead in one fell swoop and loudly ordered for more. 

From there the conversation turned to other things. Politics, it seemed, had not become any less complicated in the time she was away. She knew that Dorne was now allied and living under the rule of Dragon Queen Daenarys. Her dragons enjoyed the heat and the Dornish enjoyed the Dragons. The only one to remain in Kings Landing, according to Jaime, was the fierce Drogon. He said after the burning, which was what they were calling the war with the Others, the dragons were loath to go to the North. That was why wights and wolves were still roaming about. The word from Winterfell, and the Wall, was that without their masters the wights wandered and killed without purpose. The first deep snows at the start of winter had given them a cruel advantage but with Sansa and Rickon back in Winterfell and Bran with the Crannogmen they seemed to dwindle and shrink back. 

“You Starks have a way with the wolves. In exchange for bannermen, keeping the North free of wights, managing the new wildling inhabitants, and for controlling the wolves her grace decided your sister, and indeed your family, should again be kings, or in this case, Queen in the North.”

Arya thought about this. It seemed an even trade, but odd. The Dragon Queen had, well, dragons. “But why? Sansa bent the knee I’m sure. She didn’t need to be a queen.”

Gendry snickered, “of course she bent the knee, we all did. There was no food, no more glass gardens, and bloody Others at the back door. Her grace had dragons.” Jaime nodded, as did Brienne.

“Exactly,” said Arya, “if she had Dragons why give up half of Westeros, the better half?” 

Jaime laughed and for a moment Arya was reminded of Cersei and how different her cold, dead laugh sounded so unlike Jaime’s warm one. “The Dragon Queen, though young, is not stupid. Her dragons are not beasts of the cold, they did not fare well in the winter winds. It weakened them. They grew sluggish and sickly.” He shook his head solemnly. “Brienne and I were there and I will say it is a good thing those Others were not strategists and we took them when we did, or we would have been on the losing side.”

Brienne agreed, as did Gendry to Arya’s surprise. “I had sworn my sword to Tarth by then,” he said, “and when we got word from Winterfell that the Wall was falling we were ordered to them directly. When I arrived we were separated into new ranks. I was commanded, with the rest of my Lady’s forces, by your brother, Lord Commander Snow.” 

Jaime smiled wide, “Yes that could not be helped. The Northmen love their Starks, even the bastard ones.” When Arya started he continued quickly. “On the whole though that love has been earned and is not without reason. The Direwolves, those great beasts, were a great help in the fight. I’d say that was why the Dragon Queen has offered your sister the title of Queen in the North. She understands a thing of beasts.”

Arya thought of Nymeria and wished, for a moment, that she had been at the battle. She remembered the rush and heat of a good fight, the warmth of blood on her skin. Sure, she could have died, but it never stopped her before and she would gladly have risked it to be reunited with her family, her direwolf, and the north again. Maybe one of the wolves around Winterfell would prove to be her own. The wolf dreams had never stopped completely, no matter where she’d been. Arya didn’t know if that meant anything but she decided she would take it for hope.

Once they’d finished the flagon of sweet mead Gendry had ordered, Brienne’s squire Pod inquired about sleeping arrangements for his Lady and they decided to retire for the evening. Brienne and Jaime, she noted, were not sharing the same room but were in rooms that adjoined. She wasn’t sure what to make of that since they had put her and Gendry in adjoining rooms as well. Gendry explained the sleeping arrangements rather red-faced which told her at least he had not expected them to be sharing such familiar quarters but he didn’t seem to find it odd that Jaime and Brienne were. She learned Pod and Aemon, the squires, then shared a room as did the Knights Alyn and Wyl. The other knight, a Ser Balman, seemed pleased that he would no longer have to share his room with Gendry. The three knights, she suspected as she watched them adjourn upstairs, would be returning to the still busy common room before too long. 

She did not feel in the least bit tired either, although she knew they had a long day ahead of them. Jaime decided if they made a great push tomorrow they would make it to Moat Cailin by evenfall. In the summer Moat Cailin was a two to three day ride from Winterfell. In winter, if the winds and the sky allowed, it could be done in four by the Kingsroad. 

Arya slipped into her room and began making preparations. She repacked her bag, slipped off her tunic and breeches, exchanging them for a long soak in a large tub full of scolding water and her favorite night shirt. Although they were impractical in a Westerosi winter, she had gotten used to wearing them in Braavos and was rather fond. She’d picked this particular one up, a long black one with thick white embroidery on the cuffs and hems not long after she had become an apprentice. Izembaro lived near the Purple Harbor, where the air was always warm and heavy even at night and night shirts or gowns were often worn to prevent the sleeping-heat sickness. 

In her room above the Biting Boar she shivered as she adjusted the blankets of her bed. She had enjoyed the warmth of Braavos and had been born in the years of the Long Summer but Arya was a child of the North and refused to give in to the chill. Before long though, she was shivering in her nightclothes and chattering her teeth together. Arya had slept in her breeches and tunic since her return, not wanting to waste her time with too much bathing and luxury. It felt unfair that now when giving the opportunity to relax some she could not sleep for the cold. With a huff she sat up in bed and mustering all her will she wrapped whatever dignity she could manage and her heavy quilt about her and stalked towards the door that led to the bathroom and beyond that, Gendry.

Arya hesitated at the door. She lifted her hand to knock before bringing it back down to her side. Not that it had much of a bearing on Arya but Gendry had always been more delicate with her than she with him. Perhaps he would not want her with him this night. Arya had curled up in Gendry’s strong arms more times than she could count when they had traveled together. She’d slept with him for protection when they were with Yoren, for comfort when they were with the brotherhood, and for company at Harrenhal. Even so, the first time she had been crying and he had hesitated and dared not touch her. He had merely encircled her within his arms like a cloak of flesh to keep her safe. Now though, it had been three years and she was flowered and grown. Gendry was a man of eight and ten at least, twenty most like. Would he turn her away? They had hardly seen each other for 10 hours. Arya imagined he had his own needs and wants for privacy and perhaps a bed warmer other than her. She would be loath to interrupt. Frustrated she growled at the closed door. What right had he to a bed warmer while she froze, a maiden, in the other room? She imagined the warm pressure of his hand on her thigh all through dinner. The comforting weight of it making him seem more real than all her time spent across the Narrow Sea. Bed warmer be damned she would not freeze in an inn on her way to her sisters wedding after no more than eight days back in Westeros without even reaching the Barrowlands. 

Arya didn’t bother knocking. Instead she opted, as she had done before, to sneak in and check to make sure he was alone before attempting to climb into bed. The door eased open softly. She had a steady hand and a foot softer than a cats paw. The room was dark, no candles lit, but her eyes adjusted quickly and she padded towards the bed. He was sleeping soundly, alone, beneath his own heavy quilt. His brow was smooth and his lips parted just so. Arya marveled at how much and how little difference three years can make. He had seemed so much older out in the forest but now, in the dim light of the moon, with his face relaxed in slumber he looked no more than the six and ten or seven and ten he was when she met him. Just a soft, sweet, stupid bastard boy. 

Arya wrapped her hand around the corner of his quilt and began to raise it only to stop dead when his fingers wrapped around her wrist.

“M’lady.” He said. His voice was gruff with sleep but his grip was firm. “Was there something wrong?” Arya huffed.

“I’m cold.” The bastard knight opened his eyes and she saw them visibly soften as they scanned her quilt cocooned self. “Please, we used to always share-”

“Shh, m’lady, you don’t want them to think, don’t,” he sighed, “don’t say we shared a bed. You were a girl, no more then one and ten-”

“Arya, and I was two and ten.” She corrected. At least, that’s what she thought. Things were a bit hazy in her mind as to the dates.

“Two and ten then. You’re a woman now, so you can’t share a bed with a bastard armourer just because you’re cold. People will think, they’ll think I, we…”

“Stupid, I don’t care what they think. I’m cold and I’ve missed you. Are you going to let me in or not?” 

He growled in response and she thought for a split second that he would refuse her but instead he lifted up his covers and she quickly removed the quilt from her shoulders and then threw it on top of the bed once she was inside. She could already feel some of the chill leave her body as Gendry’s warmth surrounded her. She had always found it funny how hot the boy was considering he spent most of his time standing next to a blazing smithy. She thought it amazing he didn’t pass out from the heat. In fact when she lay beside him at Harrenhal she thought maybe he was so hot because he absorbed all the heat from the fire during the day and released it at night. She felt him relax gradually as his body melded around hers like iron wrapping around itself to melt into steel.

Soon he was breathing deeply across the back of her neck, his face buried in her hair. She tucked her chin into her chest and fell asleep not long after him. 

 

A knock on the door that adjoined her room to Gendry’s did not surprise her. She had been awake and listening as they knocked on her own door and then after they went in she heard them check for her. Arya knew it was only a matter of time before they asked her “protector” where she’d run off to. She had tried to get up only Gendry had wrapped his arms tightly around her waist and she didn’t want to wake him. Now, she figured, that would be inevitable. 

“Gendry, Gendry you stupid, wake up and let go.” She whispered harshly and struggled a bit more vigorously in his arms. He tightened his arms and hauled her full against him. Arya flushed as she felt his manhood pressed into her back and stopped moving. She hadn’t thought of this. Panic rushed though her but she didn’t have to worry about how to wake him up because not a moment later the knocking on the door increased and a harsh cry came from the other side.

“Waters! Get up, the Stark girl is missing!” And that’s when Ser Alyn opened the door. Gendry sat up at the exact same time, exposing Arya who had buried herself in the quilt and his chest hoping he would stay still. Ser Alyn looked from Gendry to Arya and back again several times before apologizing and backing out of the room. 

Arya turned just in time to see why. The armourer’s face was full of fury. 

He made a low, strangled noise before flopping back into his pillows and throwing his arms over his eyes. Arya groaned at his long suffering sigh before pushing his elbow. 

“Stupid, I tried to hide and you wouldn’t let me up.” She smirked as his chest flushed red in the predawn light.


	4. Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumor has it.

“A Baratheon man loves nothing so well as a Stark woman and a Stark woman loves nothing so well as a man she is not meant to have. End of the tale, my lady.” Jaime shook out his gloves before pulling them on and turning back to button his pack. He smacked the top with finality and settled his eyes on Brienne. “And it having a thing to do with you I wouldn’t understand. If the pretty little children of the long summer want to spend their winter nights rutting, let them. I daresay Robert would be thrilled. After all, that is why he intended to wed Joffrey and Sansa. A think this particular match is significantly more well-suited.” 

“You truly think the boy is Baratheon?” Brienne finished tying her own pack and took up the reigns of both garrons as she and Jaime headed for the stable door. Arya ducked behind an empty, iced over, trough before the two made it to the doorway. She sunk deeper into the shadows when they stopped to latch the stable doors. Jaime turned to the lady and smirked.

“Of that m’lady, I am most certain. How he survived the culling I cannot say but did you not yourself say he was the shade of Ser Renly?”

Arya had heard enough. Gendry was a bastard of King Robert’s. She frowned. Honestly, Arya didn’t know if this would make him happy or not. Mayhaps he already suspected, though she doubted it. He was stubborn, bull-headed, and last she remembered completely convinced of his low birth. On the one hand he would be of royal blood. Sure, the Baratheon aren’t royalty now that the Targaryan’s are back in power but House Baratheon is a well-known and respected house with a good seat in the Stormlands. Her father was the most honorable man she knew and he respected King Robert more than most. That had to count for something. Still, Gendry was always so angry with her when she brought up him being a bastard, even though some of her favorite people were bastards! And that number was always including him. King Robert wasn’t exactly discreet however and she knew Gendry would hate that. He has, more likely than not, more natural children walking around now than he ever had legitimate children while on the throne. That is unless the rumors are to be believed and he had no true heirs at all with Cersei Lannister. 

Arya was sidetracked from her thoughts on the Stags of the Stormlands by golden-haired and silver-tongued beasts, the Lions of Casterly Rock. Cersei Lannister, royal wench, was worth every bit of trouble it caused Arya to kill her. The wenches brother though, he was a man of a character whom Arya could still not read. On the one hand he attacked her father, killed Jory and Ser Rodrik, may or may not have carried on an incestuous relationship with his twin sister, and stabbed a king he was sworn to protect in the back. On the other hand he saved Brienne from a bear pit, tells funny jokes at dinner, refused to speak at his sisters trial (or so she heard), fought with Daenarys Targaryan and Arya’s own brother Jon Snow against the Others, and was the only one who saw fit to end Mad King Aerys’ reign before the whole of Kings Landing was smoldering rubble. Arya knew first hand how much people can change. It doesn’t happen wholly often without significant cause, but it does happen. Perhaps she’d been trying to judge two different Jaime’s as one and the same. Except that Mad King slaying business, that at least appeared to be rather consistent.

Arya stepped out of the shadows and into the stables before anyone had time to wander by and wonder why a Lady of the North was crouched on the ground behind a trough. She began to saddle and ready hers and Gendry’s horses. It would go a short way but Arya was trying to assuage the armourer’s anger, which when she headed downstairs was rather terrifying, and every little bit helps. Ours is the Fury, how she thought it fit him. After she “grinned and danced” away from him this morning, his words not hers, he had been fuming. He thought she didn’t care that the knights (and now she knew as well the squires most probably and Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne most certainly) thought they were “rutting” last night. He told her this very loudly. He was right, she didn’t. For one thing they aren’t, and even if they were, it wouldn’t be any of those other people’s business as far as she was concerned. She did care that he cared however, so she resolved to make it up to him. After all she had not set out to make him seem less than the honorable knight that he truly was. 

Truthfully, Arya didn’t understand Westerosi mores about sex. It most likely had something to do with her sexually formative years being spent across the Narrow Sea. In Braavos she saw courtesans who were revered and respected. Boys are taken by their fathers and occasionally their mothers to the Purple Harbor or Byre Bay to learn about women or to one of the Happy Port’s pleasure houses if they’re not rich enough. Women, especially female Bravos, are often sexually active and just as promiscuous as their male counterparts. She had watched and learned. Tyroshi women braided their hair to symbolize their sexual orientation while the whores from Lys were rumored to be the most skilled of any in the Free Cities or Seven Kingdoms. Women from the Summer Isles, it is said, only like it if they may ride on top like a man. None of it had fazed Arya much to be honest. Septa Mordane would be furious. Still, contrary to Braavosi society, she had kept her maidenhead intact. Certainly not for the sake of the gods, old or new, instead she did so more for a lack of interest than anything. She was only just past her name day and at six and ten she hadn’t, up until very recently, been around anyone who she would choose as a potential bed mate. The Kindly Man was not an option, nor did her proclivities run in the way of the Waif. Izembaro was rotund and short with a few too many years and neck the size of her waist. Those three had been her chief company in Braavos, none of which granted her any time to explore her blossoming female body or the bodies of young Bravos, regardless of culture.

The thing that bothered her most while he shouted and cursed wasn’t the knights or Gendry’s reputation but how he kept calling her ‘lady,’ only when he did he made it an insult. And he kept saying how improper she was for crawling into his bed when he was half asleep even when his feet were just as cold as hers were last night and he should have been thankful for a bed warmer. He also seemed unwilling to let her crawl into bed with him at Moat Cailin. Well that was fine with her. She would give him time to calm down and it would give her time to decide whether or not she would tell him about his being a Baratheon, by blood if not by name.

Arya resolved not to mention either topic to Gendry on the road and wait until the morrow to bring them up. 

“Lady.” Gendry’s voice broke Arya out of her reverie and she silently cursed him for catching her off guard even though it was her own fault.

“Ser.” If he wanted proper she would give him proper. “I’ve saddled and readied your horse.”

“You didn’t have to.” He walked over and patted the horses long brown snout.

“I wanted to, stupid, to apologize. I know you don’t want them to think you’re with me and -” She watched as the blush crept down his ears to his face and disappear in the neck line of his tunic and jerkin. He interrupted her solemnly.

“That’s not it, m’lady. I’m sorry I yelled at you. It’s-I’ve never been with anyone. Not that I haven’t wanted to but I wouldn’t father a bastard whelp on a woman and I’ve not taken one to wife.” Now it was Arya’s turn to flush. She hadn’t expected to hear anything about Gendry’s sexual appetite regardless of whether or not he satisfied it. She couldn’t help but be curious.

“You mean you’ve not ever? Not once?” When he shook his head she couldn’t help herself, she tried to hide her grin as she spoke. “You mean to tell me you’ve never shared a bed with a girl at The Peach?” 

“I told you no. Why are you so surprised? Have you?” He was pulling rather vigorously on the belt that held his pack as she sidled up to him.

“No Ser, I have not. But I then must name you liar Ser Gendry Waters of Hollow Hill.” He turned with a start and stared down at her. She could see the protest forming on his lips. “I know for a fact you and I shared a bed at The Peach. I remember because you wouldn’t let anyone else near me the whole time we stayed there.” The blush was back and his eyes, after widening, narrowed dangerously. Before he had time to retort Arya was halfway up her horse laughing. 

She could here the mad echoes of his horses hooves as Gendry gained on her when she rounded the doorway. She swore she could even here him laughing through his shouts.

 

The Kingsroad was still and silent as they rode with no sign of wight nor wolf. Jaime and Brienne were trotting just ahead of her and Gendry just behind. The snow was falling slowly in big fat clumps of flakes that caught on her eye lashes. Arya blinked them away without thinking. 

“So, you grew up in Winterfell then?” She turned to her right to look more closely at Alyn Haigh. He was around Gendry’s age with watery grey eyes and dirty blond hair coming out from beneath his helm. She supposed if she were Sansa and she might find his pale, pointy features delicate. She might even think him attractive. Arya was not Sansa and she didn’t want to talk to him. Unfortunately she had promised to Gendry that she would be as ladylike as she could manage for the rest of the journey. Arya mustered up her most ladylike simper and did an impression of her sister at four and ten.

“I did, Ser. I can hardly wait to see its walls again.” He smiled and she gave a smile back. Arya cringed inside though as his horse edged closer to hers. She knew there was a reason he was talking to her and she instinctively felt she wouldn’t like. Her hand slipped to the knife in her sleeve cautiously as he leaned towards her. At least he was at her left.

“You have to wait one more night m’lady. If I may be so bold you could do better than Ser Waters. I hear you are old friends, so you must know he’s a bastard. I would gladly offer my services to a lady in need. My father is Ser Leslyn Haigh and my mother was Lady Perriane Frey. The Freys were loyal bannerman of your mother’s father, Lord Hoster Tully before that misunderstanding at your Uncle’s wedding.” Well, she hadn’t expected that. The knight’s toothy grin reminded her, strangely, of her father’s old ward Theon Greyjoy. He continued, “But I’m sure you know nothing of any of that and I would be willing to tell you my lady, perhaps in private?” 

He was more stupid than she had expected. Much more stupid.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage Ser Alyn for you appear to know everything about me and while I seem to know nothing about you.” She smiled and then leaned closer. Her grin widened as he bent down to better hear her and she was sure only gain proximity. His breath was minty with chewed evergreen. She could smell it waft towards her horse. He was stupid and cocky. “But Ser Alyn, you are wrong.” It was then that she let him feel the cool of her blade at his hip. She had cut through the folds with her cutpurse knife and now rested the dull edge on his right hip bone. He moved to jump but he was on a horse and knew well enough not to spook the beast.

Arya smiled again and slipped the knife away and back up her sleeve. “Don’t speak to me again. Not of my family and not of Gendry.” Ser Alyn growled but said nothing more as he urged his mount ahead. 

It was midday before the snow began to fall thick and fast. Jaime trotted his garron ahead to match pace with Ser Alyn and Ser Wyl. Ser Balman and the squires were in the middle of the pack and Arya rode at the back with Gendry on her right and the Lady Brienne on her left. 

Brienne was discussing the merits of fur lining angrily when Wyl’s horse went down. Jaime and Alyn fell back immediately to Balman and the squires. Jaime was barking orders in her ear when Arya saw the first black, twisted hand. It was reaching, grasping, out of the white. She wanted to scream but didn’t have the breath as cold air filled her lungs. On Jaime’s orders Gendry, Pod and Balman stayed with Brienne and Arya. Alyn and Aemon rallied to Jaime on his word. 

The horses bucked wildly as the wights lumbered forward. Ser Wyl’s horse whinnied as the wights began to tear at its flesh. Arya scrambled for needle before she wheeled her horse around to face the wights coming. She swung wide and hacked at the arm of the nearest wight. Her thin blade sliced clean through but the stump of the arm continued to come forward, thick with blood black as ice crusting over it. She her left Brienne was wildly slicing at their opponents and Pod was on the ground protecting Brienne’s horse. Arya could hardly see his helm through the snow. Her horse kicked and she was thrown to the side, she almost lost her seat but the reigns stayed wrapped around her hands and she led the horse right and away from the closest walker. 

Arya heard Brienne’s cry even though she could no longer see the woman through the white. Her garron neighed as she tried to turn her around towards the scream and again the horse reared up. Arya had time to see the wight wrapped its fingers around the leather strap of her saddle before she felt cold, heavy hands around her waist. She released piercing scream as she was dragged from her horse. Arya swung needle around only to be stopped by the clang of steel. Gendry held her tight in front of him. The saddle almost wasn’t large enough but Arya was small and Gendry had a stout beast beneath him. She almost hacked at him again because her garron had kicked off their pursuers and was now fast leaving her behind with her saddle hanging precariously of to the side. He held her tight, however, and though she attempted several times in the melee to break away he wouldn’t allow it. 

“Pitch, pitch, Pod where is the pitch and wildfire?!” Jaime was shouting from somewhere of to the left of her and Gendry’s position. Gendry wheeled the horse toward the shouts between Gendry, Aemon and Pod. Suddenly bright green light burst through the snow and Gendry urged the horse faster. Inhuman cries wailed through the thick snow as they rode. Large bursts of green sprung up on all sides as Ser Alyn and the Kingslayer took torches to the wights closest to them. Ser Wyl was lying secured and unconscious across the back of Ser Balman’s horse and Ser Alyn was passing another torch to Jaime when they arrived. Jaime frantically called for Brienne and menacingly swung his torch at them on their approach. Gendry’s horse reared but once Jaime saw they were no danger he swung the torch away and called for her again. 

Ser Balman found the Lady Brienne in the snow, as he tried to dredge up any hiding wights or other fell beasts, with her horse atop her right leg. It didn’t look to be broken but they wouldn’t know until they reached Moat Cailin and had a Maester look at it without the covering of armour she wore. Brienne was not unconscious but she was close and Jaime was visibly distressed. He swore and shouted at anyone who came near him to help or get out of the way. Brienne, for her part, was sullen and spoke hardly at all but to explain how she ended up as she did. Ser Alyn was in charge of looking after Wyl and Jaime put Gendry in charge of helping Arya secure the foodstuffs and supplies, etc. That left Ser Balman to help Jaime with Brienne. Pod and Aemon were looking after and tending to the horses. 

Once Jaime secured the Lady Brienne to his saddle, with her leg supported by the straps of her own saddle that they cut of her dying mount, he told everyone to mount up. If they wanted to reach Moat Cailin by nightfall they would have to ride hard. They didn’t want to be caught out in a Northern winter with wights and beasts roaming the wilds after nightfall. The packs were split up between the other horses that Arya and Gendry felt were still stout, strong and able. Ser Alyn’s horse had also suffered an injury and so his packs were taken off as well and divided amongst the rest. The horses were slow moving being so weighed down and the journey was long but just as the sun began to sink beneath the horizon the silhouette of Moat Cailin loomed up out of the grey. Ribbons of color bounced of the sky and snow and it seemed to make the white and grey stones of the three remaining towers of the ruin shimmer green and pink in the dying light as the host picked its way through the basalt rocks that were strewn about the front of the castle and between them and the gates. Jaime had sent a raven more then two days ago that the castle should be expecting guests on their way to the new Northern Queen’s wedding. The gates opened with little conversation between Jaime, who was in a sour mood, and the watchmen who didn’t seem as though he was terribly interested. As they rode through Arya felt her muscles begin to relax and melt against the chest of Gendry’s armour. She hadn’t realized how tense she had kept her body on the ride. Gendry tightened his arm around her as if he felt her relaxing and worried she might slip into a puddle on the stone floor. 

“Welcome to Moat Cailin, I am Lord Arthor Karstark and this is Lady Beth Karstark, formerly of Winterfell.”

Arya noticed first that most of the wooden keep had been rebuilt. She saw that it was fresh wood and she wondered how many trees were felled in the building and whether or not that made them more or less vulnerable to the wights. She decided on less. She also noticed that they were being taken to the Drunkards tower. Fitting, she supposed, since that was probably the least used considering it’s lean. Brienne and Wyl were immediately taken to the Maester at hand, a Maester Pierce. Jaime went with them. Ser Balman took control of the rest of the arrangements. Gendry hadn’t said a word beyond, “Are you injured milady?” for the whole rest of their ride, even though she was seated on his horse. 

They were to be sharing quarters on Ser Balman’s orders, much to Gendry’s chagrin and Arya’s excitement. Fresh thrushes were laid in all of the guest rooms that were fit for habitation but there were several that weren’t and much like the inn, sharing was a necessity. Arya peaked into some of the abandoned rooms as she passed and saw the remnants of cook fires, fights and squatters.

When Arya and Gendry were showed their room he immediately went off with Ser Balman to inquire after Lady Brienne, Wyl and Ser Jaime. Left alone, she began to unpack some of her things to find appropriate supper attire and was excited when a maid came in with a chamber pot and fresh linens. Arya took the chance to inquire about the household, other guests and the rest of her party. Apparently everyone else was settled and Gendry, Ser Balman and the Kingslayer were still with the Maester. 

She said although the Maester seemed old and clumsy he was often greatly inspired in his healing and this made Arya feel better. She hated Maesters but she didn’t say so and really just wanted Brienne in good hands, not that she thought Ser Jamie would let anything happen to the big woman. The girl said that the other guests there were also heading to Winterfell and her sister’s nuptials. Among them was the new Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Jeffery a former owner of Westerlands and his lady wife, a petite woman with thick blond Lannister hair and blue eyes, Lady Britta. There was even a representative from the Summer Isles, Troilus of Barnes and his companion from the Shadowlands, Aabed. The serving girl seemed particularly interested in two young knights in service to Casterly Rock, Ser Dennys and Ser Sandy. She said they were good fortune for the new Queen in the North because they were twins. 

She then apologized for all the guests, because that was why Arya was to be sharing a room with her Protector. Not a bed, indeed there were two smallish ones in the room, but the damage was done. She even offered to have someone come up and rearrange the rooms to remove the second bed. Arya assured her it wasn’t necessary but the girl still seemed to assume, if her flush was anything to go by, that Arya and Gendry were intimate. He would be furious. 

Arya listened as the girl continued to ramble about the guests to avoid thinking about her and Gendry’s new sleeping quarters. How was she supposed to properly apologize to him if he wouldn’t talk to her, let alone share a room? 

Before Arya knew it the girl was shuffling out of the room sullenly and Gendry was looming in the door way.


	5. Moat Cailin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New spaces and faces for our party.

Arya dug through her pack restlessly. Gendry had been in their room with her for 5 minutes and not said a word. Their fragile truce seemed strained and it grated on her. She couldn’t tell if he was angry, concerned or just being his stupid self. He just glowered darkly in her direction and went through his own things. He was still partially armoured and although he didn’t appear to want to change she knew he must if they were to attend supper that evening. There would be a feast in their honor and Arya thought Jaime would be loath to allow Gendry to sulk in his room. However, that all depended if Jaime was there himself, if he stayed with Lady Brienne he wasn’t likely to care. They would be at Moat Cailin for a few days at least and there was sure to be another feast. The house girl had mentioned the recently harvested glass gardens of Moat Cailin and the Lady Beth’s diligent work in them. She said they would not near starve this winter, she was confident. 

Arya watched Gendry out of the corner of her eye. She was more casually observant now than she ever was when Gendry had known her before and she could see he did not look well. Frustrated with having to be gentle, she simply rounded on him and decided a direct approach may work in her favor. Gendry had always been rather willing to hear her out in the past.

“I do not care if you are mad at me or do not wish to speak with me but I demand to know of Lady Brienne and Ser Wyl.” He was sitting on his bed, one boot off and one still on but in his hand, with the most bewildered look on his face. With a grunt he pulled off the boot and set it beside his feet, firmly planted on the ground, and faced her.

“Lady, I am not mad at you. I don’t speak because I am tired and...its nothing.”

“What’s nothing?” Arya watched as he sat on the bed and rested his head in his hands.

“Lady Brienne will be fine. Maester Pierce said the wound was not deep and she should be able to ride within a sennight. Ser Jaime is confident we shall make it to the Queen in the North’s wedding.”

“I didn’t ask because of Sansa’s wedding. What is nothing?”

He stood up and walked across the room before turning back to her. His face was red and she could feel his discomfort. “Then why did you ask at all? I don’t believe you care about Ser Jaime or the Lady. The Arry I remember didn’t care for Lannisters.” She froze. What was he talking about?

“I do care. If I didn’t I wouldn’t be asking, you tonto!” She all but shouted. She did not want to draw attention to their argument. He crisply walked back towards her and stood less than a foot away, looking down at her stony faced.

“What does that mean?” She stared back up at him and edged closer. He did not move and she was not about to give up ground. She learned long ago, before she left Kings Landing, that if you gave up ground it was twice as hard to get it back.

“Stupid.” 

He breathed out through his nose heavily and Arya was reminded of his treasured bull helm. She had a minute to wonder what happened to it before his chuckle broke her concentration. 

“You haven’t changed one bit but for your look.” Arya couldn’t tell from his sigh whether he meant it as an insult or not. She took it as not. 

“And you’re still a bull-headed-” but her words stuck in her throat. Bastard boy. Although that wasn’t entirely true. Baratheon. Bastard maybe but if Edric Storm could be legitimized…she stopped herself. “boy isn’t the right word anymore is it? Man-grown. Knight. Ser Gendry the Bull-headed fits a bit better, I think.” She laughed and so did he and she was happy to have hidden her thoughts. She would keep her Baratheon secret for now. He sobered and looked down at her. Arya was trapped in his hands, each of which had grabbed her arms and held her in place. She could do naught but look back up at him quizzically. 

“I kept thinking what I would have done if that had been you found beneath your horse. You are so small.” She felt warmer than before but a shiver ran up her spine.

“But I wasn’t, you saved me.” He nodded and released her. She smirked but didn’t step away. “Now I think on it Ser, I do get into an awful lot of trouble. Mayhaps Ser Jaime was right about my needing an escort.” 

Gendry laughed. The sound of his guffaw was loud and deep and curled into Arya’s stomach like hot soup. 

“There is no doubt M’lady.”

“So,” she said slyly, “you’ll keep an eye on me then?” 

He tilted his head before consenting with a clipped, “I will.”

“Is that you, then, consenting I warm my feet in your bed…Ser?” She couldn’t help it; goading Gendry was far too easy. She nudged him backward and he abruptly sat on her bed. She had not expected him to think on it seriously but if his look was an indication, he was. A flush had crept up his cheek but his eyes never wavered from her own.

“We share this room but not a bed tonight, m’lady. The fire should be warmth enough. I missed you, Arry-Arya. I admit that, I did not so much wish you to leave my bed at the inn.” He looked as though he was struggling to find the words and Arya couldn’t help but feel a little bit worse because if it. “It was improper, M’lady.” 

She didn’t know why that made her angry, but it did. Instead of raging at the boy as she would have done years ago, she instead nodded. And with a smile and a small giggle she turned away from him. “I am no lady,” was her parting shot as she busied herself again with her packs. Still, a wretched twisting in her stomach gave her pause. 

Did she want to sneak into his bed again? Of course. Were these not the natural instincts of a child? They were. But was she a child? The answer was no. She was a woman grown, a killer of men. Arya had not been a child for a very long time. So then were they the instincts of a woman? 

Gendry began to shed his armour, breast plate first with its many straps, followed by gauntlets and leg plates. He was unlacing his jerkin and a tremor went through Arya as she watched, fascinated. If she is a woman, she reasoned, is it not right to have the desires of a woman? Izembaro’s wife, Leonessa, had said that men are not the only creatures to enjoy bedding. A strong woman can enjoy it and desire it as well as a man and use it better than one. She imagined Gendry at the forge, sweat gliding down his strong arms, his shirt sticking to his broad chest. Her body tightened and she gasped. Gendry looked over but Arya spun quickly away. She decided she would not think on it then. 

She buried her hands and head in her pack. Pulling out a gift from Leonessa and Izembaro, she quickly told Gendry she would find some girls to help her wash and leave him to his own preparing. He acknowledged her with a tilt of his head but nodded all the same. She would bathe first and then she would prepare for dinner. She was anxious to meet the other guests at Moat Cailin, especially the man from the Summer Islands and his companion from the Shadowlands. She had always wished to visit those places and she had many questions. She also did not think she could spend another moment in Gendry’s presence, the feelings in her that caused shivers in her spine and gasps in her mouth would have to be put aside.

The dress Leonessa had made for her was a colour she called Cerise. At first Arya refused it because it reminded her of Cersei but Leonessa was her friend and persuaded her to take it. The colour now reminded Arya of Braavosi sunsets over the harbor and the silk flags of merchant ships. She would wear it with fur-lined slippers lent to her by Beth Karstark. 

At first Arya thought it strange that the girls took her to bathe with the lady of the castle but she was soon let in on the secret. Beth Karstark was once Beth Cassel before the War of the Dragon Queen. She explained this as Arya was brought into her chambers and Arya was delighted to speak with someone formerly of Winterfell. She hadn’t recognized the woman before, but on closer inspection traces of Beth’s father Jory were evident in her features. The same curled hair and upturned nose, the same honey-coloured eyes. Although Beth Cassel had not been a particular friend of hers in Winterfell Arya knew she would be loyal to the Starks and to Sansa. Also, Arya expressed her love for Beth’s father. Ser Jory had been one of her favorites of her fathers men and had always treated her well. She may not be great friends with her host but it was nice to have another acquaintance familiar with Arya Stark and especially one who reminded her so much of a lost friend.

Arya half expected to be as frigid as she felt at the inn but the castle, rebuilt ruin it was, was full of hearth fires and hastily woven tapestries hung on all the walls. Thrushes were laid over every inch of cold stone floor to keep the chill at bay and as she walked into the wooden dining hall of Moat Cailin, a borrowed cloak shifting around her and blocking her and her silk dress from the chill and the eyes of the feasters. When she moved to stand beside Gendry she shivered for another reason entirely. The guests watched her entrance because she came in with the Lady Beth, but she felt Gendry’s gaze most keenly as she approached. His face was a mask she could not read but for whatever reason he did not seem happy to see her.

She’d swept her shortish brown hair up into a simple knot and her neck and wrists were bare even though Beth had wished to lend her a small gold necklace. Arya never wore any adornments and therefore did not own any. She found them restraining, uncomfortable, and pointless. Also, many times they made noise or drew attention. Since much of her life relied on sneaking about those qualities made jewels and wristlets, and other such things she was sure Sansa and Beth both loved, a danger. She felt wearing Leonessa’s dress was concession enough for the occasion and as she sat Arya restrained herself from muttering that this would be the last formal feast she would attend bar her sisters wedding feast. She hated being in clothes that required her to actually think about the way she sat. Happily the cloak Beth lent her covered the many revealing aspects of the dress. It was Braavosi in cut and Braavosi in influence. It could be unbearably hot across the narrow sea and this dress was made to allow for that with gaps in the sleeves, skirt and an almost entirely bare back. It also lacked the undergarments often found in Westerosi dresses like under skirts, waist cinching boning and voluminous small clothes. This dress, as Leonessa said, was meant to be worn alone with nothing over and nothing underneath. Arya felt the cold was enough that she could ignore half that statement (more than half if you counted the cut-purse at her left wrist and the two blades on her right thigh). Else wise it was just her skin against the silk of the dress and for that she was grateful. 

She loved the feel of the fabric across her skin, gliding cool and smooth, giving her goose-pimples on her arms, legs, and neck. That’s why the dress had been made for her in the first place. Leonessa saw how Arya adored the fabric, even though the girl would not admit it at the time. She had been a kind woman and Arya missed her and her daughters then, as the dress had flowed over her head and into place. They had not seen the dress on her but she had assured them they would. Then Cersei happened and her banishment. They had promised to see her again and Arya dearly wished they would, if only to see how she adored their gift. Now she sat beside her blacksmith, whom she’d told them so much about, and they were not here to meet him. 

Across from her was a Lord whom she did not know. She guessed, from the linen girl’s earlier description, this would be Lord Jeffrey. He had short cropped hair as blond as his wife’s and bluish gray eyes beneath long lashes. What struck Arya most was, when they stood for Beth and her to be seated, he was astonishingly tall for such a thin man. He reminded her of a may-pole. He also had a very sizable forehead. He was in deep conversation with the man from the Summer Isles who was seated on Arya’s other side; this she presumed was Troilus of Barnes. Lord Jeffrey’s wife, a beautiful blond woman, was quite diminutive and although she was small seemed to be having a rousing argument with the twin knights, Ser Sandy and Ser Dennys. She was discussing how happy she was that the old ways were still alive in the North as they were in Dorne and how she never agreed with the men’s right to succession. The knights seemed tired of the conversation but the companion of the Summer Islander, Aabed she thought his name, seemed very intrigued. The Lord and Lady of the House were talking discreetly with Ser Balman, presumably about Ser Wyl and Brienne, who were not at the table. Neither, Arya noticed, was Ser Jaime. Ser Alyn, and the squires ate without talking, tired and ragged as they were. That left Arya in the awkward position of talking with Gendry who she’d only just recently made up with and whom she now entertained some sort of desire she could not yet manage although he didn’t appear to desire her that she could tell. She couldn’t believe she could act so stupid, so like Sansa. And yet, she was filled with irritation. Why did he not desire her??

“What are-” She began, facing the blacksmith, but was cut off when he turned to her.

“What. Are. You. Wearing?” His voice was low and slow and solid. It was spoken in a whisper she knew no one else heard. Although his face was turned towards her, conversationally, his eyes were stern. And why? For a stupid dress? She sighed. 

“A dress. You remember I am a woman grown now. I am expected to appear in dresses every so often whether I like them or not. Which, just to be clear, I do not like them.”

Gendry’s face didn’t break into the grin she thought it would. She kept her face open and clear. Her features were hers to reign. Her eyes, however, were questioning.

“I meant, what kind of dress is that?” He pointedly motioned with his hand and made a look of disgust. She sighed at his transparency. To others it must look like he is arguing and she is having a perfectly polite conversation. The problem is they are engaged with each other. This would not work for very long. 

“This was a gift from a friend, Leonessa, on the island of Braavos.” She was whispering but hoped she was injecting the venom that she intended. How dare he insinuate her dress was not as pretty as the others? It was breathtaking. “It is the only dress I own and it is the most beautiful dress I have ever seen. If you do not think so that is your failing Ser and not mine or hers. It is made of silk from the Summer Isles and was stitched by the best seamstress in the Purple Harbor.”

“I agree milady.” Arya, startled, turned to address the intruder. It was Troilus of Barnes. His traveling companion was nodding fervently in agreement. “The silk of the Summer Islands is the sheerest, strongest silk in the known land. It is hand dyed with berries found only in our regions so the colors are richer than any in Westeros. The markets of Tall Trees Town, however, very rarely see a garment of this quality. May I introduce myself, I am Troilus, Prince of Barnes. This is my companion, Aabed of Asshai.” Troilus wore a cap of bright yellow feathers and beneath it loose fitting linen pants, similar to those worn in Braavos. He wore a richly colored green tunic and green vest as well. His companion, Aabed, wore a similar black vest and tunic with white linen pants over which he wore a feathered cape of black. To her eye the feathers appeared to change colors from black to blue to green to purple and back again as he shifted in the torch light. The effect, she thought, could be entrancing if one were to watch for too long.

“Thank you my Lord, it was a gift.”

“Yes, you spent time in Braavos, correct? You were with Izembaro and Leonessa in the Purple Harbor. You must have been apprenticing.” Arya stiffened as she searched Aabed’s face. How had he known? Someone knew too much, she hadn’t said a word beyond Leonessa’s name to Gendry. Her panic must have been evident because Aabed quickly finished his thought. “Do not worry, in Asshai as well as The Summer Islands you skills would be highly respected and valued.” Arya merely nodded.

It seemed everyone else at the table was entertained by an argument between Lord Jeffery and Lady Britta about the terms of servitude for prisoners of war. 

“We will not disclose our knowledge,” promised Prince Troilus, “you are among trustworthy friends Arya Stark of Winterfell.” Another blow. Her panic was not evident in her features but still her heart was pounding in her chest. Jaime had introduced her as Lady Penelope of the Free Cities, a girl from a lesser house of Tarth who traveled across the narrow sea for safety. The best lies were sprinkled with truth. To her knowledge only her party and Beth Karstark knew the truth. Apparently this was not true. Gendry’s voice asked the question from behind her, his breath ghosting over her ear as he did. Arya shivered.

“How did you know?” She felt the twitch of his fingers at her waist. She knew he would be reaching for his war hammer if only he had it. He didn’t of course. It’s not often considered good etiquette to bring your weaponry to dinner. Then again, if it was her brother Robb and her mother might still be alive.

Aabed smiled then. “It was easy. Her coloring is not of Tarth and her accent is a mix of Northern sharpness and Braavosi lilt that I have never heard before now. She is traveling with knights under an assumed name to Sansa Stark’s wedding. Although she is of a lesser house she is intimately acquainted with our Lady Karstark who, to my knowledge has never been to Tarth and who was once Beth Cassel. They are keeping guests as a vassal to House Stark because her father was a knight of the Stark’s personal guard even though her husband’s father was a traitor. Also Brienne, the Maid of Tarth, has been rumoured to still be looking for the youngest Stark girl for reasons previously unknown but are now suggested to be an oath sworn to the late Lady Catelyn Stark.” He spoke so fast and so quietly, ticking the points off on his fingers as he spoke, that Arya leaned forward to listen and she felt Gendry as well. Troilus and Aabed then performed a hand maneuver Arya had never seen that involved the hitting of hands and chests. She assumed it was a form of congratulations in either the Summer Islands or Shadowlands. Her guess was the Summer Islands. They turned back to her and Gendry with sincere faces. “Like we said, you are with trusted friends. We will not speak a word of this.” Troilus was speaking and indicating himself and his friend. She nodded again and Gendry did as well. 

“Er,” she started, “how do you like the Lamprey?”

 

After that the feast went rather more smoothly than she anticipated and Gendry kept his opinions of her dress to himself. There was much talk of the Dragon Queen, her sister’s nuptials and the legitimization of Edric Storm and Jon Snow-now Baratheon and Stark respectively. Sers Sandy and Dennys speculated the Queen would come with the bride’s brother and her consort on her dragons. Ser Balman said this was not possible because she was also bringing Tyrion Lannister. Ser Sandy, or Dennys for she wasn’t entirely sure which was which as they seemed to answer questions for each other often and never addressed each other directly, laughed and said Tyrion would be able to ride with Jon Snow on his dragon seeing as how they got on so well. 

Beth introduced each course with a list of things grown in her glass gardens with pride. Lord Jeffrey and Lady Britta ceased arguing long enough to have rousing game of Cyvasse against Troilus and Aabed after the feast which the foreigners won (to Lord Jeffrey’s dismay). Troilus spoke at great length of his tutor, a great Cyvasse player of the Summer Islands, Shyrlie Bennat. Sers Sandy and Dennys managed to get Alyn passably drunk enough to enjoy his evening. 

Ser Balman left right after the food was finished to deliver some to Lady Brienne, Ser Wyl and the Kingslayer. He was accompanied by Arthor Karstark, leaving Beth to discuss trends and her glass gardens with Arya and Lady Britta. Neither lady was terribly interested in it but both felt they could not escape courteously. 

Very soon, but not soon enough for Arya, Gendry interrupted the conversation to tell the Lady Penelope she had many letters to write and as her keeper, he suggested she head to her chambers. She agreed, although grudgingly she made it seem, and followed him away from the hall. The pathway to the tower was silent and cooler than the main hall and she rushed her shorter legs to keep up with the knight in front of her. Once in their chambers she began laughing.

“Thank you for saving me, finally. I thought she was going to talk all night. I don’t remember her having such a fondness of the glass gardens my lady mother kept at Winterfell. Lady Britta will be there all night either way because Lord Jeffrey insists he can win a game of Cyvasse against Troilus. Only he can’t.” She laughed a little at the thought of Lady Britta enduring Lady Karstark’s rambling into the wee hours. It serves her right for arguing with her husband all through dinner. Gendry was smiling too. 

“I tried to get to you earlier, you looked so bored, but Dennys and Wyl were trying to get me drunk I think.” He cocked his head and shrugged his shoulders. “I had to pretend to drink 4 horns of wine before they let me leave the table.” His eyes were clear but his face was tinged the slightest shade of pink. She assumed correctly that he had drunk a little more than usual with his fellow knights. He deserved a night of rest and drink. It had been a long day of riding and the afternoon weighed heavy on her heart. She shrugged away her cloak and he groaned behind her. 

“I don’t care if you don’t like my dress, everyone else does.” She rounded on him, hands on her slim waist and her eyebrows dipped into a scowl.

“Milady, it is not that I don’t like it.” He left the room in a rush and Arya sat on the feather filled bed in his wake. She was woman-grown and he a man, it had been a fact in her thoughts all day. If perhaps he felt as she did? That would certainly make things easier.


	6. Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fighting just to make up.

Arya flung open the door to see Gendry had not gone far. He was leaned against the castle wall, bent at the waist, his hands on his knees and head between his arms. Arya sighed and dragged him back in their room by his tunic sleeve. He seemed startled but allowed her to drag him willingly. He would have to be more stupid than she thought he was not to be expecting her. She sat him on his bed and, with hands on hips, demanded to know why he was acting the way he was. 

“Well?” Arya goaded, “Lion got your tongue, Ser?” He sighed and hunched further forward, his large chest curving in on itself.

“M’lady, you would not like-”

Arya stomped forward and pushed at his chest dangerously, her being close to being in his lap, and put her lips close to his face as she answered. “I’ll be the judge of what I would and would not like you stupid smith!” 

“You look pretty.” Arya stopped on the spot. She stared at him, her face blank as a mask since she had not willed it to do anything. “You look very pretty in the dress,” he said again. His face was a deep shade of red, almost purple. In fact, she thought absurdly, he was the same color Sansa used to turn when Arya ruined her dolls or made fun of her in front of Joffrey. 

“I don’t and you-you’re cruel.” Her voice was quiet and even. It was true. Her mother and Sansa, they were pretty. Beautiful even. Leonessa and her daughters, the women of the Purple Harbor and even some at the Happy Port were pretty. She’d had pretty faces too, in the time she worked at the House of Black and White. None were her though, because Arya Stark, Arya Horseface, was not pretty. There was no harm in it, being plain was no great loss, she never wanted to be treated like Sansa or even her mother. 

“What?” He looked up at her confused. 

“I don’t look pretty. I’m not meant to be pretty and marry some lord or another. That isn’t me. That is Sansa, it was always Sansa.”

“M’lady.” She shrugged away from him and walked across the room to her own bed and her own pack. 

“Stop being stupid,” she turned to him and narrowed her eyes, “Ser.” For some reason, although she had before wanted to sit with him, talk with him, now she felt she could not stand to be near him. How dare he mock her? She knows she is not pretty. She has never been pretty; she just thought Gendry knew her better. She thought, foolishly, that he didn’t care for pretty girls like her sister and Jeyne Poole. Honestly, she doesn’t quite know how men stand them…and now, lie to her? Just because he doesn’t want to fess up to disliking her dress or, at best, thinks it improper for a girl of her station to wear Braavosi fashion. It was cruel. 

She began to struggle with the straps at her shoulders. She felt her face flush with indignation and her eyes filled with angry tears as her fingers fumbled with the complicated ties. Lady Karstark, stupid Beth Cassel, had helped her to put it on and now Arya was wishing she had done it herself so she would have some idea at how it worked. 

Rough fingers covered hers and stilled the work of her graceless hands. 

“Arry.” His fingers deftly pulled at the tie and the complicated strap came undone easily and began to slip through the loops and almost off her shoulders. Arya quickly grabbed it, feeling suddenly like the stupid one. 

With a mumbled, “Thank you,” she tried to step away from him but his strong fingers stayed wrapped over her shoulders. He slid his large hands down to grip her arms loosely. Even so his hands were heavy and warm and Arya felt even with all her training she would not easily be able to break his grip. 

“M’lady, I’m sure your sister, the lady Sansa, is lovely, but-” he hesitated, not long enough for her to speak but long enough to hear the hesitance in his words. He pressed on, decidedly, with a bit more force then before, “you are a woman-grown and… beautiful.” 

Her breath felt sticky in her throat like honey. Her heart sped up in her chest and she felt hot blood fly up into her face. Her cheek must have been scalding to the touch. She dipped her head forward, into her chest, to catch her breath. His words blew across her ears, moist and hot and tangy with wine, “you should not think otherwise.” 

With that he released her arms and she moved to the door, grabbing her nightclothes as she fled. Arya found the first available servant and requested help with her hair. It would need to be taken down before she would be able to sleep without the ridiculous pins stabbing her head. Just one more reason, she figured, to hate occasion that required her to dress up like some silly lady. 

She groaned, she needed to sit for a while before she could face Gendry. Once her short-ish hair was once again free the girls helped her out of her dress, folding it carefully in her arms. Normally she would be completely able to manage on her own but it always took longer with help and she was reluctant to go to her room. Her attitude wasn’t helped by running across Sers Dennys, Sandy and Alyn in a hall near her chamber. “I’ll have her, the red one-the red haired one, a dragon on her,” said Ser Alyn to the twins. Apparently they were betting on serving girls and Arya had to get around them to get back because she didn’t feel like exchanging pleasantries with the even more vile than even she imagined Ser Alyn. 

Arya tied her dress around her waist and knotted the ribbons of her squirrel skin slippers to the makeshift belt. She jumped quick as a cat onto a spare barrel full of thrushes and vaulted up to the wooden support slates of the ceiling. Her fingers scrapped and scrambled at the catches in the gaps on the thick, rough hewn, stone walls. Once pbove the corridor she deftly skipped across the planks above their heads, her bare feet softly gripping the fresh wood and her hands outstretched for balance. She ran out of slates halfway down the hall and cursed. She was about still twenty or so paces from the corner to her hallway and thus, her door. Did she want to wait until they left on their own? She unwrapped her shoes and dress and secured them in the corner between rock and beam before spinning on her heel. She flipped out her cut-purse knife as she stealthily returned the way she’d come. 

She could here snatches of their conversation as she hovered above them. Ser Dennys   
(or Sandy?) was telling a tale of their sister, the Lady Meggan, an old friend of the dead Margaery Tyrell formerly of Highgarden and, ever so briefly, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Arya rolled her eyes as the men all paused their story to wax upon the lost beauty and her being wasted on the dead kings of Westeros. Arya grabbed hold of a thick tapestry cord, just above the knot. She slowly pulled until the Tapestry no longer hung but was pulled taut against the wall. She gripped it firmly and, when they stood directly beneath her, cut the knot off. She released the cord. It flew away from her and through the iron loop in the wall that anchored it. 

The tapestry, reeling from its previously right position, fell forward off the wall and landed directly on the lot. 

She sprinted across the planks and grabbed her bundle as she swung down. She had to admit she couldn’t put off returning to her room any longer for fear of recrimination once the three managed to untangle themselves. Arya did pause to snicker silently before swinging around the hall corner. She leapt up the stairs, two at a time, to get to her room still joyous from her prank. When he reached the smallish landing near the middle of the tower she halted. Arya stared at the door of oak and iron with her clothing in hand. She was unsure what awaited her inside. Mayhaps silence? Benign acceptance? Passion or regret? Mocking laughter she didn’t think him truly capable of? Mayhaps nothing? 

Would he be gone? 

She steadied her heart and her trembling hands. She was calm as still water, as quiet as the weirwoods outside Winterfell in the evening. Arya felt her face relax, it was passive and cool. Her lips she formed into an even line. Her eyes were aware and open but unseeing. She focused her mind and opened her ears to the castle around her. A mouse scurried in the thrushes to her right. A draft whipped down the stairway below her, shifting another tapestry. The questing Sers had begun to move loudly toward the other end of the corridor at the base of the stairs. 

On the other side of the door she focused. Heavy steps muffled by fresh crackling thrushes and lavender, grown in Lady Karstark’s prided glass gardens, releasing their scent from bushels crushed beneath his boots. The soft brush of skin on rough spun cloth. Steady breathing. She could hear Gendry on the other side of the door. He was anxious but he was still there. She waited until she heard him move across the room. She wanted him to be far away from the door when she opened it. She needed to take control.

Arya gripped the handle and swung the door open. She didn’t make eye contact with him as she turned to close and latch the door. He’d stopped moving when she entered, more like a startled fox than a bull, and she felt his eyes on her as though his gaze was a warm ray of summer sun on her back. She slipped the dress into her pack, securing the buckles and flaps. She then walked like a ghost to the burning candle on the small, round table beside her bed. The former ghost of Harrenhal was now at Moat Cailin for a different purpose. She noiselessly blew at the flame of the candle until it flickered and went out. She took a deep breath and turned to Gendry. 

He was stood still where he was when she’d come in. Her hair was swept back but she tucked a stray piece behind her ear to get a better look at him. He was in his pants and boots still but had discarded his jerkin and shirt. She remembered him working in a similar outfit they times she saw him smith. She remembered the heat of his skin and the sweat beading in the center of his back. She remembered watching his cold eyes, hard with determination, as he hammered the steel on his anvil. He had this look of awe and satisfaction whenever he was finished and surveying his work. It was how he looked at her now. She did not go to him. Instead Arya deliberately walked to the bed Gendry had claimed and pulled back the thick coverlet.

As she lay on his feather bed she heard him undress on the dark side of the room. She faced away from him and only turned when she heard him breathe out a rush of air to extinguish the last candle. She felt the covers shift and his body weigh down the opposite side of the bed. 

“M’lady I-” She lifted a hand to her mouth and covered it with her fingers. He was suitably silenced.

“I am afraid of the wights Ser. I asked you to keep me safe and would not sleep away from you.” With that she turned away from him and pressed herself back into his broad chest. His thick arms encircled her frame and his large palms splayed out flat on her stomach. Her darkly hued nightshirt bunched between his fingers as she breathed deeply. Arya fell asleep with Gendry’s lips, warm and dry, pressed against the back of her neck.

 

When she next woke the clear sunlight was glinting through their window. Arya had never felt so warm upon waking. Not even in the Free Cities when you would begin to sweat half way through breaking your fast and the morning dew disappearing. The early mornings were often cool and her silky linen sheets were always light and airy. Gendry’s body was a furnace behind her and before her, wrapped around her. She was warmed iron beneath his touch, melting and sinking into the featherbed. His steady breath rushed over her ear and blew her hair softly. It fluttered across her cheek, trembling on her skin, before falling flat against it once again. 

Arya stretched underneath his arms and smiled as she felt him stiffen above her. His arms carefully tense around her middle. She stretched like a cat and yawned playfully in the muscled cage of his embrace. “Good morning Ser Smith.” He made a sputtering noise and released her with a huff through his nose. She thought he looked more like a bull then she’d ever seen him. She stretched out and sighed with the morning sun on her face and her eyes closed. 

“M’lady,” he said somewhat grudgingly, which made Arya laugh. She turned to face him then and he was laughing too. 

“It is still strange to hear that.” He turned to her and shrugged.

“M’lady? It shouldn’t be, I’ve always remembered my courtesies m’lady.” She sighed and he smirked back at her eye-roll before contemplating the ceiling stones.

“Shut up.” 

 

They rose not long after and he made the bed while she hurriedly pulled on a clean pair of breeches and a shirt. She laced up a handmade leather jerkin she had fitted for her before she left Braavos and then sat to put on her boots. Gendry had a routine very similar and Arya fiddled with her loose braid until he was finished and ready to accompany her in finding something to eat. They chatted about the castle’s guests the entire walk down and Arya related her story about the wayward knights of the evening much to Gendry’s amusement.

It was almost as though nothing had changed, even though Arya knew of course that this wasn’t true. Much had changed during the coming and going of the winter moon. Admittedly, she didn’t quite know what or how much but it was a feeling in her gut that she couldn’t ignore. Things were not like they had been at Harrenhal or on the King’s Road or with the Brotherhood. 

Not that she was unhappy with the way things had gone. She felt it was progress of a sort and to be perfectly honest she felt safer in his arms than she had since the first day she set foot away from Winterfell. These feeling were strange and unsettling though and Arya thought she could leave it be, for a while anyway. She would sort them out when she was more certain. Perhaps, she admitted to herself grudgingly, after she spoke with Sansa. This was exactly the sort of thing Sansa would know about. 

Gendry, for all intents and purposes seemed happy with the arrangements also. He was unusually animated as he discussed with her the armoury of Moat Cailin and its current state of disrepair. He was listing to her changes that would need to be made and fully intended to share these thoughts with Arthor Karstark before they set out again. Even in his excitement he didn’t speak overmuch and she was thankful, at least that had not changed. 

In the informal hall breaking their fasts was Lord and Lady Karstark as well as, to her surprise but enjoyment, Ser Jaime. 

“The Lady Penelope and our own Ser Gendry, welcome.” Ser Jaime was in good spirits and invited them to sit when they entered.

“Ser, we may ignore pretenses this morn, I am aware of Lady Arya’s identity.” Lady Karstark was smiling but Ser Jaime’s face turned sharply. He did not remove the calm expression from his face although it was no longer the same easy look it had been. 

“We may not, what you say in your solar is between you ladies,” and now his lips broke from their grin and slid into a thin seem across his face, “Lady Penelope’s safety is left to myself and Ser Gendry and foremost to the Lady Brienne. We will not risk it with laziness.” Beth seemed shocked but nodded quickly with a mumbled apology. Lord Karstark agreed emphatically as well. 

“Forgive me Lady Penelope, how did you sleep? Were you warm enough?” Beth seemed chastised enough so Arya smiled as warmly as she could even though the slip had rankled her as well and nodded. She thought maybe Beth was a bit starved for companionship so Arya sat near her and engaged her in half conversations about the weather, Winterfell and Braavosi fashions. Truly Arya was focused on the Lords at the table but Beth was an old friend and she had learned over the years to listen to two conversations at once.

Ser Gendry and Ser Jaime were discussing the possibilities of travel for Brienne and Wyl as well as the likelihood of coming across wights and other fell beasts with Lord Karstark. Arthor Karstark knew the wilderness around the castle well and seemed fairly confident they would not likely run into the beasts again but mentioned the smaller parties tended to attract less attention. For that reason he did not think it was a good idea for their party to travel with any of the other guests at the castle. This Arya didn’t mind, while she would miss the company of the foreigners she would not miss the bickering of Lord and Lady Perringer. She also suspected afore too long the twins would have a lasting bad influence of Ser Alyn, which was the last thing the knight needed.

Arthor Karstark also mentioned he would provide them with dragon glass daggers, which had been provided by the Dragon Queen herself some months ago for such occasions. Arya’s ears perked up, Gendry had mentioned the use of dragon fire and dragon glass in the eventual defeat of the others but he did not have any when she wished to see some. She saw his eyes flicker to her face and she gave him the barest of smiles. He would make sure she attended them to the armoury. 

Her attention slid reluctantly back to Beth when Lord and Lady Perringer entered. Lady Britta sat near them and immediately Beth began asking if the two would like a tour of her glass gardens. Arya only agreed to attend when Lord Karstark promised they would go to the armoury together when she returned. Lady Britta also defended her position to visit the armoury, somewhat needlessly, with a defiant smirk at her agitated husband who had pointed out Lady Britta’s lack of enthusiasm for armouries thus far. Beth just laughed and mentioned something about little Arya Underfoot that Arya chose to graciously ignore even though it made her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. The kindly man would have noticed. She still counted it as a triumph considering some years ago she would have petulantly scowled at the woman. Now she simply spread jam thicker on her scone. 

The glass gardens that were Beth Karstark’s pride were actually more interesting to Arya than she thought they would be. Firstly, they were beautiful. The walls glittered with sunlight and the colors of the roots, vegetables, flowers and spice plants were vibrant and exotic. It was similar to the rooftop gardens of the manses in Braavos. Secondly, she had to admit the grandiose scale and beauty of the construction reminded her of Winterfell. Beth told her that Arya’s childhood home had been the inspiration for the design as well as the inner wall irrigation system. The queen had, apparently, helped to construct several of these gardens all around the North in strategic places to provide food for the small folk and Lords alike. 

Gendry had forgotten, she was unsurprised, to mention this fact in his rendering of events.

The gardens made Arya ache for home. She hadn’t been in so long the ache had been pushed down in her belly but now it intensified with her closeness. She knew during the war of the Five Kings and the war of the Dragon Queen that Winterfell had been host to pain and terrible loss, torture and death, fire and ice. Men and beasts alike had ravaged its walls and towers, its gardens shattered and its trees scorched. Still, her minds eye saw it as it once was. 

Dusted with summer snow, hay and thatch new on the roof tops, fresh thrushes crunching underfoot, walls damp with heat and the air fresh with the smell of evergreen and the roses her mother grew beneath the glass. Mikken silhouetted against the fire of the forge, her brothers shooting arrows at targets under the guidance of Ser Rodrik, Beth’s grandfather and the Master-at-Arms of Winterfell. Her mother would be shouting at Bran to get down from the tower wall and Sansa would be giggling with Jeyne and Septa Mordane as they stitched. She could almost hear Rickon laughing as he tumbled around with Shaggydog in the dirt. Harwin would be playing dice with Jacks in the hall as Maester Luwin attempted to instruct her on her letters even though she longed to run through the weirwoods with her brothers. Lastly her father, the Lord Eddard Stark, would care for them all. 

No more.

After their tour Arya went to find Gendry, Lord Karstark and Ser Jaime. They weren’t in the hall and she headed towards Lord Karstark’s solar when she bumped into a rushed Ser Balman. He explained he was fetching water for Maester Pierce. He was afraid Ser Wyl was not drinking enough. 

“Ser Wyl is less well than the lady, though he stands a good chance of being able to travel within a fortnight he may have to be left behind for the wedding. He is insistent of attending so Maester Pierce is doing everything he can so Wyl may attend.” Ser Balman looked doubtful. Arya asked where they were and he bid her head south, passed two corridors and left of the Karstark coat of arms. 

She headed the way he indicated and found herself in a flurry of activity. Pod was scurring around the beds at the orders of the Maester, an old man, balding. He sat at a desk in the corner mixing a poultice with mortar and pestle. Brienne was sitting up with a plate in front of her. She was eating as Jaime spoke to her of Lord Karstark’s intent that they be armoured with four dragon glass blades before they leave since they’ve used half their store of wildfire already. She was nodding solemnly. Arya noticed his hand, his true hand, rested on the Maid of Tarth’s knee gently over the blankets as they spoke, his thumb rubbing small circles. 

Ser Wyl was playing a card game with the squire Aemon and, it looked to Arya, he was winning spectacularly. He leg, which apparently was the problem, was propped up and hanging from a winch system attached to the ceiling. It was wrapped in a thick, moist wrap that was the color of mashed neaps. 

“Lady Arya,” it was Brienne who spoke. Arya turned back to her and Jaime. His eyebrow was raised at her and he had a small smile on his lips. She thought, in passing, that it was no wonder so many women spoke of him as handsome. His smile changed his whole face and in the time that she knew him, as a child and now as a woman in the three days since her return to Westeros, she had only seen him smile in the company of Lady Brienne and his brother, the Imp. 

“Welcome wolfling. And how was your trip to the Lady’s glass gardens, well?” Arya found herself smiling back. 

“Yes, they were very beautiful but I was hoping to accompany you to the armoury Ser.” He nodded and turned to Brienne. 

“Yes, I was just come to see if my Lady was also interested in attending us to the armoury and I believe she is so inclined.” 

“Yes,” Brienne spoke up again, “I am very interested. The last time I saw it was the Battle for the North. I would feel better if I knew we had some for the journey.” Jaime was nodding his agreement as Arya sat in the chair beside the bed.

“Gendry said you had dragon glass to use against the Others but when I asked he said he couldn’t keep it.”

Brienne shoved her plate away, laving only a small hunk of bread. Arya picked it up and bit into it as the Maid of Tarth spoke. 

“We were ordered to relinquish the blades after the battle. The dragons were not able to stay long in the North, not strong enough. They are not meant to live in the harsh cold. The dragon glass was too valuable to leave the North. The queen refused to leave the North undefendable again.”

Jaime huffed, “And she was right, that dragon glass should never have been under the keep of Dragonstone. It was foolish to keep our greatest weapon as far as possible, without leaving the Seven, from our greatest threat. Aerys never said but it was there before he was crowned.”

Pod scurried by and fluffed Brienne’s pillow before snatching her plate from the bed. “Lord Tyrion would know. He knows more about dragon’s than anyone.” Pod’s voice was soft but deep. He must have been around 15, and skinny. “He read all the books.” 

“He did, I remember Tyrion nearly lighting his bed on fire trying to read about dragons in the night.”

“I wish I had been there to see it,” confessed Arya, “I would like to have been there.”

“You wouldn’t.” Jaime’s voice was deadly serious. “The drifts were over 50 feet high, the snow fell hard and thick over the battlefield. Men were freezing to death before they had a chance to be torn apart.” Arya shivered. His words were so much like Old Nan’s then. “We didn’t see the sun for days, nor the stars. Just darkness, upon darkness, upon more darkness for days. The dragon fire was the only fire that would stay lit but there was never anything to burn. Nothing but the cold and the dark.”

His voice halted and Brienne filled the silence.

“There was so much death milady, and fear.” Arya tried to take it in. She tried to picture Jon, Gendry, Brienne and Jaime together in the dark. Fighting to survive, fighting the North as well as the White Walkers. 

“But the North is my home.” She dipped her head, she couldn’t help it. She was ashamed to have run so far away.

“Do not feel bad little wolf, the North was won and you are returning.” He smiled again, genuinely, at her. “Your family will be happy to have you.”

“They will.” The trio looked up to see Gendry in the doorway, Pod peeking out from behind him. “Your brother, Jon, he never stopped asking about you.” 

“That’s right,” said Jaime, “I’ve never heard our Master Armourer speak so much in one sitting. Oft he’s almost as quiet as the Wench here.” 

“I would rather my silences mean something instead of my words meaning nothing, Ser.” Brienne’s words were stern but her face was calm and unperturbed. Arya thought the large woman might have laughed under her breath.

“Lord Karstark sent me to gather you. We must see the blades and discuss how many we shall need. The skies grow darker and he fears we shall not make the journey if it snows.”

Brienne began to rise, with the assistance of Pod. The Kingslayer and the Smith turned away as she was wrapped in a thick, quilted long coat. She was given large slippers as well. Once the massive woman was dressed suitably they left the Maester’s chambers. Gendry and Arya walked ahead, his large hand at her back, while Jaime led the Lady Brienne and her faithful squire.

Arya felt the cold wind before she was in it. She could feel the cold creep into her bones as they neared the outer doors, whistling through the towers of Moat Cailin eerie and unending. 

As the door opened and the wind brought with it a flurry of snowflakes Jaime clapped Arya’s shoulder enthusiastically, “and off we go, little wolf.”


	7. Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of flirting.

The armoury consisted of a small out building of grey stone and dark, knotty wood. The door creaked loudly on the old, iron hinges and Arthor Karstark had to vigorously kick at the small drift that had built up in order to get through. Still, Arya was happy to be in from the cold when they entered. Her furs blocked some of the chill and Gendry did a fair job blocking the rest but she wasn’t quite warm. She’d spent too long across the narrow sea lounging in the heat and the scorching sun. The snows were never so deep in her childhood memory, nothing but soft summer snows and small summer storms, if they could be called so. Nan used to call them flurries. 

All along the walls was steel. Not particularly good steel, noted Gendry under his breath but loud enough for her to hear. Arya ignored his muttering though because in a room within were the most beautiful glittering blades she’d ever seen. They were long and short, wide and thin, thick and slight. Each one had a different curve, no two the same. Some were jagged and splintered at the ends, some as smooth and sharp as her father’s greatsword, Ice. 

“Do you know how dragonglass is made, Ser Jaime?” Arthor Karstark was standing beside a rack of, what looked like, small dirks made of the obsidian glass with cloth and leather wrapped handles. 

“You know, I don’t think I do. Something to do with dragons I’m sure.

“I do.” All eyes turned to Gendry, his voice had been clear and soft. “Lord Tyrion, the Hand, told me.” Arya smiled at the awe in his eyes as his fingers slide along the edge of a splintered dagger,his dirty nail catching on a crack down the center.

“Out with it then,” said Jaime with an impatient laugh. “My brother knows many things and if he told you how dragonglass was made then he told it true.” 

“Same as regular glass really only instead of sand and ash, you make it with stone and ash. It can be poured, coloured, and shaped as it cools into whatever you’d make it and after it can be cut. Dragons breathe is so hot it burns sand before glass could even be made. When a dragon breathes on building stone, that’s already mixed with ash and wood, it melts, charring ‘til it’s black and when it cools you get dragonglass.” 

He shook his head then, to uncover his eyes and Arya couldn’t help but think his coal dark hair was as black as the dragonglass he was in such awe of. Red heads she thought, like the whore Theon used to favor, have hair they say is kissed by fire. But no, truly kissed by fire hair should be dark as ash and pitch. It should be dark as Gendry’s. 

“It takes months to cool and the men of Valyria were the only men who knew how to shape it properly. Most on Westeros cooled too quickly and shattered. That’s why the blades are irregular.” Said Lord Karstark, nodding approvingly. “Lord Tyrion does know his history. Did you memorize that?”

“I was interested, m’Lord.”

Lord Karstark nodded again and inclined his head toward Gendry before walking towards the wall and gesturing at a fragmented dirk that looked as though it was shattered and put back together. “The stones that made much of this dragon glass were once great towers, holdfasts, and keeps during the year Aegon the first took the Realm as his own. The dragons that forged these blades with their deadly breath were the feared Vhagar, Meraxes, and Balerion the Black Dread. Never before and never since has so much dragon fire flowed over our lands.”

Arya let her fingers slide across the wood of the wall beside her. The dragonglass looked sharp and she tried to distract herself from touching it by fingering the hem of her tunic. The inky glass glittered in the dim and she was sorely tempted to try her hand at one of the thinner daggers. They reminded her of needle. Her first sword and most treasured. Her fingers itched to dance along the edges of the myriad blades on the wall. She longed to test the weight and the balance, to spin and thrust and dance. She would have smoky and sharp dragonglass for a hand, an arm, an extension of herself. They were mesmerizing. 

Her hand reached out towards the handle of the blade nearest to her, slyly she let her fingers trip over the cloth hilt of the dagger and her fingers wrapped around it. Gendry’s warm hand rested on her fingers and she stilled. When she turned he raised and eyebrow before he shook his head and tilted it towards the still speaking Lord Karstark. Gendry had been partially blocking her from being seen but now he’d shifted, threatening to reveal her to the party. Arya scowled and with a sly laugh stepped on his foot.

Gendry grunted and snatched his foot back. Arya giggled but stopped short when she saw that they had garnered some unwanted attention.

“Ser?” Brienne, as tired as she must be, turned to Gendry with concern on her face. “Are you hurt, did you cut yourself?”

Arya watched as the back of the knight’s neck flushed the colour of Dornish Red and Gendry apologized to the Maid of Tarth. “No m’lady. I had a pain, in my back. It’s nothing to worry over, m’lady.” 

“Back pain? It looked to me you favored your foot.” Jaime smirked at Arya and she ducked her head but shot him a quick smile in return. She returned her attention to Lord Karstark, grudgingly.

“The blades are sharp, as you know, sharper than any steel, Valyrian or otherwise. If you are cut with a dragonglass blade the cut will be deep and heal slow but there will be no scar. Maester’s think it is because it cuts so smoothly there are no torn edges on the wound.” Arya stared in awe. “These can just as easily gut a goose as take an Auroch’s head off so you’d best treat them with care.” 

He lifted one of the larger, longer, blades off its resting place and handed it to Ser Jaime, who took it up with his good hand. 

“Thank you Lord Karstark. It is very generous of you to open your armoury to us. I think 4 blades shall be sufficient. That is one for me, one for Ser Gendry here to accompany his hammer, and one each for our fair maids.” Arya groaned along with the Lady Brienne, but stayed quiet as Ser Jaime continued on. “Ser Balman has expressed an interest in a battle axe if you would be willing to oblige him we would be grateful.” 

Lord Karstark nodded and led Jaime back towards the front of the armoury, leaving Arya and her companions to choose their own weapons. Personally, Arya didn’t want to have to use the dragonglass. One encounter with wights was more than enough. Still, the blades were enticing and she endeavored to make her decision wisely. She was careful not to cut herself on the many sharp edges but she still very gently tested each one she weighed. The balance of dragonglass was nothing like she ever felt before. They were not heavy enough by far. She slithered up beside Gendry as he examined a rack of longer, leather hilted weapons. They were not so long as swords but longer than any of the knives she had tested. 

“I do not like the weight.” He looked left to her before nodding.

“Nor do I, they are too light. They need something to counter the extra weight in the hilt, like a core.” Arya smiled at him as he thought. He still wore a pained expression on his face whenever he was thinking. She’d seen it so much on him lately she worried for his health. Laughing she took his arm, trying to draw him back. 

“You could do it you know, now that the queen has dragons. You could find a way to core the dragonglass, build proper swords from it.” His eyes became deadly serious then, blue as she ever saw them and steadied on her own. 

“No, I would have to be in Dorne or Kings Landing for that. I won’t go back to the Street of Steel. I would go with you once this is all over, if you’d have me. You’ll stay in the North, won’t you?” 

She was momentarily stunned. She’d hoped but had tried not to hope too hard. He had left her, after all. She’d wanted him to stay and he’d left her and then she’d been taken away. At the time she’d thought she’d never see him again. After the Red Wedding she’d thought she’d never see another friendly face again and now he was taking her to her family and wanted to come along. Gendry had followed her from Harrenhal, protected her identity from Hot Pie and the others even after they found out she was a girl, he’d looked for her after the Hound stole her away, and he’d intended to avenge her by traveling all the way to Winterfell just to get himself locked up in a cell with only a gaoler for a friend. Lucky she’d gotten to him before he’d made that mistake. The Hound would have had his head if the guards hadn’t locked him up first. She knew he would follow her now all the way into the North which, once she thought about it, had always been what she wanted.

Arya smiled at him and Gendry smiled back. 

 

A banner of black with a brilliant white sunburst in the center, the sigil of House Karstark, flapped against the wall noisily as the troupe made it back to the main castle. Each in the party carried a dragonglass blade gingerly on their person. Arthor suggested boiled leather to carry them in and each member had a blade or two that could go without. 

Ser Jaime and the Lady Brienne were in good spirits, it appeared to Arya, and sat by the fire drinking mulled cider and talking. Brienne had abandoned her blanket and was merrily laughing at Ser Jaime’s impression of his brother, the Imp. Ser Alyn, with his new found drinking buddies was challenging Lord Perringer to a contest of strength as Lady Perringer watched on unamused. Instead she and Lady Karstark expounded on the barbaric tendencies of men. 

Arya set about convincing Troilus and Aabed to come to her and Gendry’s chambers to attempt to teach him how to play Cyvasse. It didn’t take long and once she had them involved it was only a matter of time before Gendry agreed, if only just to please her. The four of them grabbed their mugs of mead and went on their way. They had only a marginal rate of success however. He had a good head for battle but a bad memory for the pieces and Arya had to point out which ones he could use for which moves. As a team the two did alright but were repeatedly and very soundly beaten by the foreign duo. For lunch they had honeyed capon and dark ale. The ale had a taste that reminded her of nights in Winterfell. Her father would let her, Bran and Sansa each have one cup with dinner. Never more although sometimes Arya would sneak sips out of Jon’s cup. Today she snuck sips from Gendry’s whenever he wasn’t looking, much to Ser Jaime’s amusement. The older knight watched them often and Arya did her best to ignore it. When he wasn’t he was watching Lady Brienne with this sort of concerned, sour look. The Lady, for her part, kept saying she felt fine but he kept asking anyway.

Arya was still finding it difficult to divide the Kingslayer, the man who killed Jory, from Ser Jaime. Occasionally all she could see behind his smirk was the man who had ordered the death of her father’s household guard. A man who stabbed the king he had pledged to protect and stood by at the death of her Uncle and Grandfather. Just as easily Arya could forget they were the same person. It happened when he would remark on Gendry’s health or when he watched to make sure she was enjoying herself. The way he worried himself over Brienne and argued with Ser Balman about the advantage of Valyrian steel versus dragonglass and whether or not shields are truly useful in battle. 

She agreed with Ser Balman, shields are dead weight. 

She confided this to Gendry two mornings after their trip to the armoury. They’d settled into a comfortable routine and were lying in bed, both pretending not to be awake so they didn’t have to rise. Arya was on her stomach with an arm loosely thrown across Gendry’s chest. He was on his back with one arm over his face and the other rested on his stomach, his fingers twitching against the fine hairs on her arm every few minutes. She spoke as loudly as she dared in the quiet of the morning. The hearth fire had been stoked in the night so her skin was pleasantly warm and her voice was thick and slow. 

“Do you think about Ser Jaime ever?” She knew he was awake but it took him a moment to answer her. 

“What do you mean?” His voice was just as thick with sleep, and low. Lower than she’d ever heard it. 

“Do you ever think about Ser Jaime before the war?” 

After a beat he responded. “No. Do you?”

“He killed people you know, good people.”

“You killed people.” He turned to look at her, his pupils large and black against the bright blue of his eyes. His long lashes brushed against his cheek as he blinked and Arya quickly tried counting them. She couldn’t. 

“So did you. The people he killed-they,” she wasn’t sure how to continue but she forged on, “I knew them. Sometimes I think about Jory.” She turned on her side to look at him, really look at him. “He was my favorite, he always watched over me. He died trying to protect my father and Ser Jaime killed him.” 

His brows dipped down and his mouth thinned. “The Kingslayer I was told about is nothing like the Ser Jaime I know. I would follow him into battle. That’s all I need to know.” 

 

“Jory was Beth’s father.”

“Who’s Beth?”

“Lady Karstark. She was Beth Cassel, she was Jory’s daughter.” Gendry sobered.

“I didn’t know. Does he know?” 

Arya shook her head, “I didn’t even know. She knew me but I doubt she knows what happened to her father. So many people died.”

“That was why, that morning at the breakfast table when she said she knew you, I just thought you told her.” He was smiling slightly as he finished. “I meant to yell at you about it.”

She laughed and shoved at him. He sighed. “You’re not being very lady like Arya of House Stark. It’s the Kings Road all over again.” He closed his eyes and covered them with his forearm. He couldn’t cover his grin though.

“I’m not a lady!” He laughed outright when she shoved him again, harder.

“Maybe not, but you’re still small and you’re still a pain in my ass, I was half right.” Arya clicked with her tongue behind her teeth and she narrowed her eyes but she didn’t shove him off the bed. She liked being reminded of the Kings Road, of their shared past. It helped her to remember she wasn’t completely alone.

“Practice yard?” She hopped up and out of bed, her bare feet making hardly a sound on the dry reeds. Jaqen H’Ghar had said smart girls went barefoot. She smiled slyly at her companion. His torso was bare, as he was wont to sleep nude and being that he was sharing a bed with a lady he felt a loose pair of breeches more appropriate. Arya said a tunic would do if it bothered him but he blushed and insisted he wouldn’t.

Gendry groaned but agreed, “practice yard,” all the same. 

They spent their spare time, which was pretty much all their time save what they spent taking lunch and dinner or speaking with the Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime about travel plans, in the practice yard. It was mostly left to them being that the previous castle guests had left the day before. Farewells were said and she promised to find Troilus and Aabed just as soon as their party arrived at the castle. Troilus and Aabed in return promised to keep her identity a secret once they reached Winterfell. Arya and Gendry had a few days to themselves since their party was set to leave three days hence. Maester Pierce felt that Brienne would be well enough for travel by then. Ser Wyl it was officially decided, would travel with the Karstark’s retinue. 

While Arya got dressed Gendry went to the kitchens and gathered them food to break their fasts. She was braiding her hair when he came back into the room, her back was to him but she could see him in the mirror. It afforded her a chance to watch him watch her. She caught his gaze and smiled. When she turned around he looked thoughtful. 

“I haven’t said but, it’s strange seeing your hair long.”

Arya scoffed, her hair was not long, just to her shoulders. She told him so and he shrugged. 

“Longer than I’ve ever seen it.” He tossed her an apple and they headed out.

 

Gendry swung hard and fast and his war hammer cut the air above her as Arya rolled her body sideways. She spun and thwacked his back with her practice sword. She was fast enough to evade his hammer but not his arm as he reached out and grabbed a strong hold of her. 

They had been at this for nigh on four hours by then. They’d decided to practice in the stables since the snows last night had made it impossible to clear the yard. The doors where closed to keep out the cold and the smell of fresh hay and horses was thick. This afternoon they had been pretty evenly matched. Half the time Gendry’s strength won and the other half Arya’s speed won. The rest of the time they called a draw, which was what this situation was about to be. 

Gendry had much improved since she’d last seen him and his smooth muscles from working a forge had grown considerably in her absence. Still, he was bigger than her and therefore slower. She bit her lip as he smiled down at her. “I win M’lady. If this were the battlefield I could do with you as I willed.”

In a fit of pique Arya swept her leg across the ground and toppled Gendry. Unfortunately it toppled her too. They landed in a heap on the floor laughing. Arya made a grab for his war hammer but he quickly held it out of reach. She struggled in his grip to grab for it. Her chest heaving with giggles as she stretched. Gendry, one hand above his head and one around her waist wasn’t much better. He could hardly hold her for how hard he was laughing at her struggle. He knew in this close proximity she was at the disadvantage. She wriggled in his grip like a fish. With a frustrated growl he flipped them over to cage Arya beneath him.

“I win!” He laughed as she struggled in vain to move him. She desperately tried to knee him but he’d made sure she couldn’t reach. “Admit it, I win!”

“You have not you stupid!” She was weaseling her hand to her hip and hopefully the hilt of her dirk when he caught her wrist. His war hammer lay forgotten above their heads.

“M’lady.” 

A startled, “What?” was all she managed to get out before he pressed his lips to hers. 

 

Arya melted into the kiss and the weight of him on her. She’d not known how she felt until this moment but when she felt his tongue slip across her bottom lip she was sure. She wanted him for her own. His mouth was warm and wet and tasted of apple and cinnamon as his tongue wrapped around hers. She snaked a hand up into his hair and she felt his thumb sweep across her cheek before he jerked away from her. His pupils were big and black and his cheeks were ruddy as he breathed deeply through his nose. He sat up and stood. She knew how she must look and took not a moment to be embarrassed. Why should she? 

“Gendry-” 

She was cut off before she had a chance to finish by the bull-headed bastard boy before her. “M’lady, I, Ser Jaime wanted to speak with me. I’ll see you tonight.” He was already on his way out before the sentence was finished. 

With a sigh Arya fell back in the hay. Stupid bull. She felt a heat, like a burning spread through her and she resolved to finish that kiss. She would wait up for him all night if she had too.


	8. Long Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knowing is half the battle.

The tiny rocks of basalt that tumbled down from her perch on the wall of the Children’s Tower made little “tick, tick, tick” noises as she kicked her legs back and forth against the stone. Arya was wrapped up in a thick cloak of grey and red fox fur, another borrowed item from Lady Karstark. The fur scratched at her neck and made her sweat but she didn’t want to take it off, the wind blew too cold and wild up on the castle wall. Her brother Bran, she thought, would have loved these walls and towers. They were cracked and creased with footholds and handholds pockmarked over every inch of stone. She watched the sun sink beneath the horizon, it glittered orange over the fields in its last minutes and lit the snow drifts aflame. 

Arya felt the presence behind her before she heard it. 

Lady Brienne, it’s cold and Ser Jaime would be angry if he knew you were up here in the wind.”

“With respect, my Lady, I’m not sick. Ser Jaime would have me abed for a sennight more if I left it up to him.” 

Arya turned to see the Maid of Tarth behind her. Her close-cropped blond hair was whipping about her head and she wore boiled leather and a thick cloak over lambskin breeches. She had to admit, the Maid of Tarth didn’t look dressed for an evening abed. Brienne was probably right, the Kingslayer was uncharacteristically over-protective of the large woman who, it seemed to Arya, could manage to take perfect care of herself. 

“He does seem concerned, overly much.” 

Brienne laughed under her breath and Arya saw in the twitch of her jaw and the flush of her neck that the Lady was somewhat uncomfortable with the topic. Arya wanted to ask what the Lady was to Ser Jaime but Izembaro had told her to ask with her eyes and not with words. 

All of Arya’s teachers knew the value of speaking without words. Syrio knew the eyes spoke the truth and the waif once told her silence makes people so nervous they would tell you their secrets to fill it if you let them. So instead Arya watched the lady, staying silent. 

“He thinks I’m his only friend, mayhaps.” Brienne appeared thoughtful. Arya wondered too. “Mayhaps he’s right.” 

Not too many, even now, trusted Jaime Lannister. He killed the Mad King he was sworn to protect, his sister(whom it’s rumored he fathered 3 children on) single-handedly broke the seven kingdoms, and most likely the most detrimental of them all, his father’s men pillaged the countryside and tortured the small folk from the Storm Lands to the north of the Neck. Not all the Lannister’s were great and terrible but the people remembered the golden Lion of Lannister as their villages burned and women were raped, while their children were put to the sword. Tyrion and Jaime Lannister were certainly pardoned and retained but her grace Queen Daenarys, but titles and land and pardons couldn’t make people like you.

Brienne continued as Arya remained quiet. “He has been this way, finicky as an aurochs, since the death of his sister.” 

Arya steadied her features and gave no indication she knew anything of Cersei Lannister’s death, which was thought to be by the Queen Regent’s own hand. Arya did not regret killing the woman and was not ashamed. Queen Cersei deserved it and if it hurt Ser Jaime then it was Arya’s small revenge for Jory. The Kingslayer was, at the very least, genial and he spoke friendly. Arya knew those who spoke friendly weren’t always your friends but she would like to regard Ser Jaime as someone she could trust. That just couldn’t happen if she was constantly thinking of Jory and the others. At least, Arya thought, Cersei was good for something. She turned away from Brienne to watch the wind swirl the loose snow atop the drifts around foot of the tower. 

The large woman seemed to shake off her thoughtfulness and round once again on Arya.

 

“You fought with Ser Gendry, why my Lady? Has he done something to offend you?” Lady Brienne said it as though it were a fact, that she had fought with him. It wasn’t. He ran kissed her and then he ran off. She’d not even had time to react. Arya sighed. That meant that she had seen Gendry and he was upset. Mayhaps he had gone to the Kingslayer’s room?

“No, we did not row.” 

The large maid came up, even though the closer you were to the edge the harder the wind whipped at you and sat beside her gingerly. The woman’s legs dangled at least two feet further down the wall then Arya’s and she sat a full head and a half taller. Still, the look of the lady was fragile. Her face, or the features of it, was soft and feminine even when the whole rest of her was not. In the dim of the setting sun, from this particular angle, Arya could not even see the savage wound on the Lady’s cheek. 

“If you did not fight with him, then why did he burst into Ser Jaime’s chambers demanding an audience? In all the time I have known him he has but once demanded an audience with his commander. He asked to come to the wedding of your sister. His reason was affection for your family and out of respect for you. And as Ser Jaime said, here you are. Our Master Armourer is very lucky indeed.”

“Was he angry?”

Brienne was smiling when Arya turned to her.

“No,” she laughed, “he asked me to leave so he could speak with Ser Gendry alone. He was more amused I think.”

“I meant Gendry, was he angry?” Brienne sat up a bit and her head tilted as she thought.

“Ser Gendry,” Brienne corrected as easily as her Lannister companion, “I don’t think so. He seemed, nervous I think, unsure. Should he have been angry?” Brienne was looking expectantly at Arya, who in turn remained sullen. The Lady continued in Arya’s absence. “I came to find you because I assumed he’d done something he thought you would punish him for.”

Arya huffed. “I can’t punish him, he’s just stupid. He’s always been stupid. And why would I punish him for that, even if I could?” She kicked her legs out again and let them fall back against the stone. Her toes were cold and stiff in her practice boots but she wasn’t ready to go in yet.

“So you did have a row?”

“No. I don’t think so, not exactly. He just-” Arya stalled, she didn’t want to tell Brienne about the kiss. When she thought of it the blood rushed into her face and her fingers itched to scratch at his scalp and the back of his neck. She’d seen Izembaro kiss Leonessa and she’d seen men kiss women in the Happy Port and at the Purple Harbor. She’d seen her Lady mother kiss her Lord father. Thinking of those kisses never caused her to flush but just thinking of the feel of Gendry’s paper dry lips pressing warmly into hers seemed to cause tremors to run through her. “He just left,” she finished lamely.

The Lady Brienne nodded although there was no way she could understand since Arya had said nothing at all really. 

“Have you thought, my Lady, of your title now that you are returned to Westeros?” Arya shrugged, just more “titles, titles, titles.” She hadn’t thought about it at all to be honest and didn’t have the slightest idea what it had to do with their conversation or with Gendry. Besides, she had been no one for so long it was hard to think of herself as someone more than Arya of House Stark, daughter to the dead Hand of the King and her Lady mother, sister to a dead king that never really was. She was a Water Dancer and a friend to Gendry and Hot Pie. She was a direwolf. “I am Arya Stark of Winterfell.” 

Brienne nodded again with a sort of finality, Arya thought, and looked away and out into the swirling snow. She sighed and wrapped her cloak tighter about her shoulders. 

“You are, My Lady, and once you are seen and recognized by your sister and your brothers and indeed the Dragon Queen, you will be Princess Arya Stark of Winterfell.” 

The cold air she sucked in seemed to freeze in her throat. She had not thought of it, she had not thought at all. How could she be so stupid?! Her sister was to be Queen in the North and that would make Arya a bloody princess. 

“I don’t want to be a princess though.” Brienne laughed at her, really laughed. The sound was rough and good natured. It grated on Arya anyway. “But I don’t.”

“What kind of young lady does not wish to be a princess?” 

She wanted to cry, she hated that. Irritation at the frustrated tears building behind her hardened her features. Her eyes were in her face and her face was hers to rule. “The bad kind,” she snarled finally. She narrowed her eyes at the smiling Brienne and she finished while glaring at the big, blond would-be-knight. “The same kind who wears armour instead of dresses I think.”

Brienne smirked and it reminded Arya of the Kingslayer. She wondered if Brienne picked it up from Ser Jaime or if it was his habit first. She thought it was his. “I confess, like you I would not want to be a princess my lady. I do not think I am much of a lady as it is, I would make a very poor princess.”

“So will I, my sister will hate it.” Brienne sobered and looked down at Arya.

“She will not be the only one, nor will you be. How many princesses have you read about, Lady Arya, which made friends of bastards and Master Armourers?” 

Arya thought for a moment of all of her sister’s stupid stories of knights and princesses and princes. She couldn’t think of one that included a smith. Not that it mattered to her. She wouldn’t be a princess, they couldn’t make her. She was a woman grown and she would choose her friends…and her lovers.

“Gendry is a knight, not just an armourer and even if he was just an armourer, or an armourer’s apprentice-I still wouldn’t care.” She wouldn’t and she didn’t. Gendry was hers; he was a part of her pack. He would be her mate too if he would just stop being so stupid. She wanted him to be and she wouldn’t let Sansa or Bran or Rickon or Jon or anyone take him from her. Not when she had just found him again. 

“He will care. He is a bastard true but he has honor and he would not tarnish your house or your honor my Lady.”

Arya stood up on the wall and her cloak snapped about her. Her feet were firm and her hands were balled into tight fists. Was that it, she thought? Was that why he ran away from her? 

“Is that why? That’s stupid, he’s not tarnishing anything!” And then, as the wind whipped her hair across her face and snowflakes fluttered and swirled around her she stopped. She couldn’t believe she’d forgotten, even for a second.

“But he’s not just a bastard is he? I heard you and Ser Jaime, I heard you say he is one of King Robert’s bastards. He has noble blood.” She was looking down at Brienne now, finally, and the Lady’s face was passive but tight, as though she thought a wrong word would send Arya leaping from the tower for heartbreak like Ashara Dayne. Arya relaxed her hands and bent down to her knees. She looked into Brienne’s face evenly. “He looks like him you know, he looks like King Robert.”

Brienne was solemn when she nodded her head. She kept her eyes in her lap as she spoke. “I do. When I first laid eyes on him I swore he was Ser Renly Baratheon rose again.” Arya stepped down from her perch on the wall to the solid ground of the catwalk. 

“Then it’s true?” She wanted to know for sure. Maybe a princess couldn’t be friends with an Armourer or kiss a bastard on the lips but she could kiss a Lord. If he were legitimized and held a castle, maybe Storm’s End, then she could kiss him whenever she wanted. Or anything else they wanted to do. She licked her lips unconsciously and her stomach fluttered at the thought. 

Brienne stared forward as she answered Arya’s question. “It is. I am unfamiliar with any Baratheon but Ser Renly, still I can say the resemblance is uncanny. Ser Jaime is sure of it as well. Gendry has the Baratheon look, he says, and his mother’s tavern was a favorite of Robert’s. Cersei Lannister had many of the King’s bastards killed in the first days of King Joffrey’s reign, which is most likely how he ended up on his way to the Wall with you.” 

“They were looking for him, the Gold Cloaks. I thought they were looking for me but they said it was him they wanted and Yoren wouldn’t give him up.” 

“He told us. That was one of the reasons Ser Jaime is so certain

If the Dragon Queen and her sister agreed to legitimize Gendry and he promised to make no claim to the throne then she could be with him as often as she wanted. He would have a castle of his own and bannermen too. She’d heard Storm’s End was currently an empty seat and Robert’s other bastard was already legitimized and the Dragon Queen’s own consort. What grounds did she have not to legitimize Gendry as well?

“Then we have to tell him, he has to ask the Queen to be legitimized. He can ask at my sister’s wedding.” Arya could hardly contain her excitement as she spoke.

“Lady Arya,” Brienne said but Arya spoke over her.

“I’m sure Sansa would do it, if I asked her and apologized for leaving.”

“My Lady, Ser Gendry already knows.” Arya had turned and was poised to leave but stopped short. Turning slowly Arya made eye-contact with the large woman and looked for a trace of lying. She looked for a twitch, the barest hint of dishonesty. Men often lie with their mouths so Arya again looked to her eyes. Brienne’s eyes were still open and honest, she was telling the truth.

“He knows?” 

“He does. Ser Jaime spoke of it with him some time ago which is why we speak of it so freely between ourselves. Ser Jaime is insistent the boy claim Storm’s End and his family’s seat. Ser Gendry has been reluctant. He is unsure if it is true, regardless of Ser Jaime’s opinions, and feels he is not up to the task of ruling the Storm Lands.” Brienne was being absolutely truthful. Why would Gendry keep that from her? Was he embarrassed? Could he really think it untrue?

“He could have left and ruled at Storm’s End, he could have had advisors and a Maester. Why did he stay at Evenfall with a castle of his own? Queen Daenarys already legitimized his brother, Ser Edric.”

“I couldn’t presume to speak for him my Lady.” She began to move towards the steps that led off the catwalk and back into the castle. “You should come inside as well, it is too bitter to be up here.”

With Brienne for a distraction and her momentary excitement over Ser Gendry’s birth Arya hadn’t realized her cloak had fallen open and her skin was covered with goose pimples. The minute she noticed Arya felt the cold like a sliver of ice running the entire length of her body and that set her teeth to chattering in her mouth. She followed Brienne down the steps and into the warm halls of the rebuilt keep between the ruined towers of Moat Cailin. 

She had to find Gendry.

The Lady Brienne was headed to the kitchens in search of a bit of broth before returning to her chambers near Maester Pierce. Arya thanked her hurriedly but declined her offer of company before leaving to seek out Gendry. She stopped at their room only to be met by a maid fixing a bath for Arya on Ser Jaime’s command. Curious. Was he deliberately trying to keep her away or alerting her? She couldn’t decide but thanked the girl anyway and told her she would return presently and to oil and, if she could, salt the water. It was what they did in Braavos after training and she found it helped greatly. Her muscles would hurt something fierce tomorrow if she didn’t soak them tonight. Then she headed to Ser Jaime’s chambers. He was in the same tower as them but much higher so she took to the stairs two at a time determined to suss out this problem with Gendry. 

As she approached Ser Jaime’s landing she expected to hear conversation but all was hushed. She drew near cautiously and found, after some inspection, the heavy door closed but not bolted. She crept closer and slid off to the right of the door to disguise her feet. With her head bent she pressed her ear to the crack between the stone wall and the door itself and listened intently. She felt light and aware as she let her senses leave her. There were tapestry’s on Ser Jaime’s walls that helped to absorb the sounds but she could still make out the murmurs of conversation.

“-know, but I’m not fit for it. I’ve no training, I’m just some bastard armourer.”

“So you’ve said, several times but you’re fair, honest, and hard-working. It’s a sight more than most high Lords have got and Storm’s End is empty because the smallfolk want a Baratheon. They’ll have no one else.” Ser Jaime paused before continuing, his tone changing from irritated to something gentler, “you love the little wolfling, don’t you?” Arya froze. Her body tensed and she could hear nothing but the rush of blood in her ears and the silence in the air between Ser Jaime’s question and Gendry’s response.

“I don’t know.” Whoosh. It felt like a blow to her gut. That stupid, stupid bastard boy. 

“You do know, we all know. Do you love her or not?” The Kingslayer sighed impatiently but he spoke calmly and didn’t raise his voice. 

“Yes, I think I may, I-” he stuttered before finishing, “I can’t not. I think about her all the time but she’s highborn, she’ll be a princess. She deserves better.” And suddenly the world burned bright again. Inexplicably knowing he cared for her made her long for home. She felt the loss of her mother and sister and brothers more keenly now than in a long time. It made her wish, for the millionth time, for her Lord father just so she might tell him. She thought she’d stopped wishing for him, but she did then. She thought he would like Gendry.

“Then go to her and tell her so and for the love of the Seven keep your cock in your small clothes and your head on your shoulders boy. Nothing keeps a bastard from being more then a bastard like a bastard of his own. And if you’re so worried about what she deserves then be the Lord she deserves and you can let her run your castle for you. I don’t think she’d let you run it even if you knew how.” 

Arya stifled a smile as she crept back. If she was right, then Ser Jaime would win this argument no matter how many times they went around. Instead of waiting to hear the rest Arya slid into the shadows and back down the flights of steps to her own landing the bath that awaited her. 

The water was warm and after the salts and oils administered it was the color of a thin Dornish Red. She discarded her boiled leather jerkin, breeches and tunic. When she was in her smallclothes she asked the girl if she wouldn’t mind standing guard at the door and to let no one in the room save on Arya’s command. Then she discarded those too and slide into the bath to wait. 

The water worked to sooth her nerves and her aching muscles. With a knowing smile she let herself slip lower into the copper tub. 

Afore too long Arya was finished washing herself and the water was beginning to cool. She called in the waiting girl and had her work to remove and empty the tub. Although the girl insisted she could do it herself she seemed grateful when Arya offered to help after getting into her nightclothes. 

Once finished with that she waited up a while and once or twice debated getting a snack from the kitchen but as the candle at her bedside burned Arya was finding it harder and harder to keep her eyes open. Finally she decided if he did not wish to speak with her tonight then she would give him this time no matter how much it bugged her and how stupid it seemed. She blew the candle out and sunk into the furs of the bed they had shared. Her last thought was of the door creaking open and the smell of him wrapping around her as she drifted to sleep.

.


	9. Glass Gardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People in glass gardens shouldn't throw...insults?

His eyelashes were the sooty color of jet or coal and his skin wasn’t the natural pallor of the North. No, his eyelashes lay against the dusky skin of the Storm Lands. His cheeks were easily ruddy and when he opened his eyes, which she knew he would within the hour, they would be the darkest of blues. The color King Roberts used to be whenever he looked on her. It was a blue that reminded her of the of the sea shells in the Purple Harbor. They were, she thought, the perfect color of rolling storm clouds heavy with rain when the skies turned yellow and green and the wind blew in hot and wet from the ocean. It made her want him to open his eyes but Arya decided to let him sleep this morning. 

When they’d first met, when they traveled the Kings Road with Yoren and later, after Harrenhal, she couldn’t move without waking him no matter if he slept in the same bed or across the room. She couldn’t count the times she’d accidentally woke him while they were together. Gendry was, and still is she thought, a light sleeper. If she so much as stirred she would find his fluttering eyes staring back at her. 

As she lay in the heavy warmth of the morning she remembered one time in particular, at an inn called The Peach. 

They’d had an argument, if she recalled correctly, about an old man who’d thought her one of The Peach’s whores. Gendry had told the old man to leave her alone and that he was her brother. She’d said something about him not being her brother and he thought it was because he was a baseborn. Of course it had nothing to do with his birth but he thought it all the same. It was more that she’d missed her actual brothers. Either way the row caused him to stomp away promising to ring some young whore’s bell for her. Arya had gone upstairs angry but in less than 10 minutes he was creeping into their room and taking his clothes off. She pretended to be asleep but Gendry knew even she couldn’t fall asleep that fast. He undressed and wrapped his arms around her when he crawled into the bed they shared with Lem and Anguy and whispered a muffled “M’sorry” into her hair. 

Unfortunately in only a few short hours her sleep was ruined when she awoke to a tingling in her stomach. She hadn’t gone to make water before going up to bed because she’d been so irritated with him and she desperately had to. Arya tried to sleep despite the ache but couldn’t no matter what she did. She wanted to slip between his arms so as not to alert him when she slid out of bed but inevitably it woke him up. To his credit he wasn’t angry. He chuckled when she explained it to him and Lem and Anguy were snoring so loudly by then they didn’t even hear it. Gendry walked with her and stood guard when she went. After, he tucked her back into his arms and she forgave him for being so bull-headed. 

She’d learned a lot since then and when Arya decided to slip out of bed this time she did so without disturbing a hair on his body. Even so his arm twitched as if to reach for her but she stilled it with the gentlest, slightest touch. On closer inspection she saw Gendry had fallen asleep fully clothed and on top of the quilt. It looked as though he wrapped himself in a thick fur, maybe bear, before lying down beside her. She couldn’t help the small smile that crept across her features thinking about the words she’d heard him speak to Ser Jaime the night before. It didn’t stop her from being entirely aggravated with his running from her, which is why she intended to let him sweat it out a bit before she let him find her, but it did go quite a ways to making up for it.

Arya quickly pulled her breeches on and tied her jerkin up over her tucked in tunic. She fastened her braid with the same strap of lambskin leather she’d brought with her from Braavos and shoved her feet into her brown leather shoes. Lastly she buckled a thick belt around her waist and then she was off, drawing the door open slowly and stealing down the corridor quickly. 

For fun she chased a cat through the keep and into the kitchens where she stopped to talk with a scullery maid about what was for dinner that evening. After begging a piece of thick bread in place of breakfast she wrapped herself in a heavy cloak and headed to the practice yard. Ser Jaime was there with Lady Brienne and it appeared he was exchanging blows with the Maid of Tarth. 

Arya hopped up on the wooden fence around the yard and chewed her bread as she watched the two. Neither was breathing too heavily so she thought they must not have been at it too long yet. Ser Balman, she noticed, was sharpening his blade not far off in the doorway of the stables. He was watching as well. 

Ser Jaime was fighting left-handed; she had almost forgotten that his right hand was removed because he had a black leather glove over the golden hand and he hardly moved it. She was impressed to see that he was still very good. Arya had heard things about Ser Jaime when she was a child, that he had been an unbeatable swordsman. Watching him spar with Brienne she could believe it. Brienne, for that matter, was not a poor swordswoman. She fought as well as he did at least and although she was an unquestionably large woman she was very quick on her feet. Ser Jaime was also moving very well for a man of his stature and easily evaded the large woman’s swings. 

Arya was fixated with the fight, neither gave up any ground but neither did one of them gain any ground. They were evenly matched blow for blow and both, she saw, were fighting harder as the time passed. They were no longer pulling swings but fiercely battling. When Brienne swung high Jaime sunk low and if he swung left Brienne dodged right. Aemon and Pod came up to stand beside her fence, both huddled deeply in white cloaks with fur-lined hoods, and watched the fight with her. The cloaks had the sigil of house Tarth, yellow suns on rose quartered with white crescents on a bright blue the color of Brienne’s eyes. Arya thought the cloaks must have been made specifically for this journey since Evenfall Hall was just across Shipbreaker Bay from Storm’s End, much too far south to need a fur-lined cloak. 

Finally Brienne landed a hard hit to the back of Ser Jaime’s right leg as she ducked below his arm. He went down on one knee and she swung her sword only stopping short of actually hitting his neck. With a gruff, out of breath laugh, he allowed himself to be hauled up. Even though he effectively lost Jaime was in good spirits. Arya hopped down and approached the companions.

“I didn’t know you were left-handed,” she said by way of opening. 

He clapped her on the shoulder with his good hand and smiled as he responded, “Only because I have to be.” 

“He used to be better. He could’ve beaten me easily before Vargo Hoat.” Ser Jaime looked incredulous as Brienne spoke. “When we first met he nearly bested me and he’d been shackled and starved for months by then and I was in perfect health. I’d never lost a one-on-one fight but I nearly lost that one. He is the most talented swordsman I know of.”

“Was,” replied Jaime solemnly. “Now I’m only second best. I don’t mind losing to the wench, I’m in good company in that at least.” He laughed heartily before giving his full attention back to Arya. “And what are you doing little wolfling? Are you come to speak with the Lady?” 

Arya shook her head. “I came to watch, is all.” She paused before continuing. “Did you tell Gendry to ask the Queen to be legitimized?” She hadn’t intended on asking but seeing as she was there. If he was surprised he didn’t show it. Arya had assumed Brienne would speak to him so she thought he might be expecting her to ask and she didn’t see any reason not to.

“I didn’t. I told him I would vouch for him if he wanted and make the recommendation myself. I’m in a better position.” Brienne had walked away to speak with Ser Balman the second Arya asked about Gendry. Arya watched as the large woman sat and began to sharpen one of her smaller blades. Ser Jaime followed her eyes and watched Brienne work as well.

“Why? Why would you do that for him?” It was the only thing she couldn’t figure out. She turned to hear his response but his eyes were still on the Maid of Tarth. “He’s just a bastard, an Armourer knighted by a dead man.”

He turned towards her briefly. “Ser Beric was a good man, a king’s man, dead or alive. Not that it matters.” Then he turned back to Brienne and his voice grew thinner. “He saved her. She was going to hang for me, your-the Lady Stoneheart-was going to hang her because she refused to kill me and Gendry cut her down. He asked only in return to come with her to search for you and your sister. She would be dead because of me if it weren’t for him. The Storm Lands will be better because of it, besides.” 

“Who is Lady Stoneheart?” This time when Jaime turned his head to look on her he stared for a long time as he thought. She’d seen many emotions in many people and what she saw in Ser Jamie’s eyes then was something like pity and she couldn’t understand it.

“Lady Stoneheart was something that should have never existed.”

“Don’t you mean someone?” 

“No,” he replied. He smirked smartly and his face softened as he finished, “now, you go back to the castle little wolf. It’s too cold out here for standing and talking. Go find your blacksmith.” He gestured back towards the castle but she shook her head.

“I’m going to the glass gardens.” 

“Whatever suits you my Lady,” he said with a shrug and turned to head towards the stables, Lady Brienne, and Ser Balman. Arya went the other direction and walked swiftly along the shoveled paths towards Lady Karstark’s pride and joy. 

 

The glass gardens were shimmering in the cold, winter sunlight and inside it was as warm as an evening along the Braavosi coastline. There were rows upon rows of vegetation and large stone jars at the ends of each row which held water that trickled into a network of gutters. It allowed all the flowers to be watered without having to be tended to. The water was snowmelt caught in a barrel just inside and to the right of the door. It was there to melt before being added to the trough for the plant life. Arya shrugged off her cloak and laid it across a pedestal beside the largest water basin.

The ground was covered by moss, Beth’s idea, so her footsteps were soft and muffled as she walked down the length of the first row. She wandered further admiring the flowers. She let her fingers brush against the soft, fleshy petals of a violet blossom she had never seen before. It had a smell she couldn’t quite place but that reminded her of evening. She meandered up and down the rows slowly, losing herself in the flowering life. She picked a green fruit, with lighter green stripes along the sides, which Beth had told her were called Zorse Tomatoes. The flesh gave easily to her teeth and the juice tasted good as she licked it from her fingers. She walked for a while, how long she couldn’t say with any surety, but once she reached the center she’d had her fill of wasting time and decided to head back to the castle and to Gendry. 

As she headed towards the door though her attention was caught by a different door, oddly to the side and out of place. It was placed facing away from the Castle and looked to be made of weirwood. She couldn’t remember Beth mentioning it on her first tour with her and Lady Perringer. It was unlatched and opened easily to reveal an exposed chunk of forest, full of dead trees waiting for summer to come back to life. 

Arya turned to go and gasped. There, in the center of the thicket, were the red leaves of an enormous weirwood. Its white bark was curling and thick and the leaves, which would remain full and red even in the dead of the coldest winter, were flashing in the unfiltered sunlight. She was reminded of the night in Harrenhal, the night Jaqen found her and asked for a final name. 

She walked through the branches of the dead trees to the base of the Weirwood. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing, she’d found a Godswood. No two Heart-Trees are the same and the monstrous face of Moat Cailin’s Heart-Tree was no exception. The expression was gentler then Harrenhal’s and less expressive than Winterfell’s, with heavy-lidded eyes filled with red sap. The mouth was closed and gently curved in the suggestion of a smile. Whether it was cruel or kind she could not tell. 

Arya thought of her father and dropped to her knees in the snow. She bent her head and for the first time in many years she prayed to the Old Gods, her father’s Gods. She prayed for Bran and Rickon, that they were not too changed by war. She prayed for Sansa and her wedding. She prayed for Jon and all the men of the Night’s Watch. She prayed for Gendry and Hot Pie and the Brotherhood without Banners. She prayed for the dead, her Lady Mother and Lord Father and for Robb. Just as the last time she’d prayed to the Old Gods she finished her prayer aloud. “Thank you for saving them,” was all she said. 

Her head whirled around when she heard the crunch of snow behind her only to find Gendry staring at her from the edge of the small clearing that the giant weirwood stood in. She’d not been paying enough attention and he was nearly upon her by the time she realized he was there. 

“What are you doing?” He sounded confused and agitated as he stared between her and the face carved into the Heart-Tree. She knew it must look strange-seeing her bent low in the snow beneath a massive white tree with leaves the color of blood and sap bleeding out of it’s carved face. No wonder the Andals thought the first men to be savages. 

“I’m praying to the Old Gods.”

“Praying in the snow? To a tree? You’ve not even got a cloak.” He sighed heavily and walked over to her, unfastening his own cloak as he did. “Do the Old Gods’ often demand sacrifice then?” She shook her head but before she could question him he continued. “Because that’s what you’d be, my Lady, if you knelt in the snow 10 minutes longer.”

“Gendry, you can stop calling me a Lady now. I can be just Arya.” He came to a stop beside her and she stood up to greet him. Gendry shook his head but he easily took his cloak off of his back and, in the shadow of the Heart-Tree of Moat Cailin, he draped it over her shoulders. He clasped it closed at the base of her neck and stepped back slightly to survey his work. He didn’t realize the significance but Arya, who grew up keeping the old ways, saw what was happening even if he didn’t.

Her father would have taken this for a vow. She stared into his face and saw the honesty and concern there. She let her eyes follow the stubborn set of his brow and the line of his mouth. Could she take him as her Lord? She’d never wanted one before, never needed one. She still didn’t need one, didn’t need him, but she wanted. She smirked up at him then, she didn’t have to need him. Wanting was enough for her.

“You’re supposed to kiss me now, you know.” His face went pale and Arya had to hold back laughter.

“My Lady, that would be, I mean to say-I shouldn’t.” He released her arms and took a step back but she stepped with him. She went up on tip toes and, quick as a cat, pressed her lips to his before he could get away. There was a moment when he stood still as a river reed but then his strong arms wrapped around her and he hauled her to him. His lips were warm and she could feel a tremble in his body as he pulled her closer to him. Arya gasped and as she did Gendry slid his tongue between her lips and into her mouth. The taste of him was different at first, a taste she was unfamiliar with but it disappeared as her tongue wrapped around his and her eyes drifted shut. 

Gendry was breathing deeply through his nose and his arms tightened impossibly as he pulled her harder against him. She let out a moan as her body responded, her only thoughts of getting somehow closer. That was when he let go.

“What am I doing? You’re a highborn, you’re a lady, and I’ve kissed you! Twice!” He stepped away looking ashamed.

“And Lady’s don’t kiss?” She asked him heatedly. 

“Not bastards.” 

She let out a frustrated growl and stomped right up to him and shoved. “This one does,” she said, seething. 

“My lady-” he cried but broke off as she shoved him again. “My-” he started but she shoved even harder, his back coming up hard against the Heart Tree. She shoved again and he growled, “Arya!” 

With his back against the giant weirwood he had no where else to go and Arya smiled. He was trapped. “Did you like kissing me, Gendry?”

“What?” He said, dumbfounded by her change in tactic.

She edged closer to him, crowding him against the tree. “I said-did you like kissing me, Gendry? Did you like it?”

“I…I don’t know.” She smirked.

“Liar.” He narrowed his eyes and her.

“What does it matter?” He spit out. 

She wanted to roll her eyes and stomp her feet and tell him he was being a stupid bull-headed bastard boy and if he’d just open his eyes he would see what it mattered. Instead Arya took a deep, steadying, breath and shut her eyes. She let the blackness slide over her. Calm as still water. She breathed out through her nose. Smooth as summer silk. 

Breathe in. Calm as still water. Breathe out. Smooth as summer silk. She opened her eyes and looked directly at him. He was staring at her quizzically with one eyebrow raised. Little puffs of hot air were visible coming out of his mouth and into the cold of the Godswood. His skin was rosy with cold and his eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them, his pupils almost obscuring the blue rims around them.

He was hers and she was going to prove it to him, she only had to tell him so.

“You love me; you told Ser Jaime that you do. I know because I heard you. And you’re going to be Lord of Storm’s End because you’re one of King Robert’s bastards and you’re going to be legitimized. He’ll vouch for you and the Imp is one of the Queens advisers. That’s the truth. And you like kissing me, that’s the truth too, just like I like kissing you.” His face went as white as the bark behind him. “So, you’re a liar but I’m not. I like kissing you. I want you and I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want to rule a Lords castle and have little lordlings and ladies. I want you, even if you stay just a stupid armourer.”

She didn’t let him respond, she just reached up and pulled his head down to her own and kissed him again, softly this time. When his hands came to rest on her waist they were gentler. His long fingers wrapped around her waist as she tilted her head and allowed him to deepen the kiss. When he pulled away this time he left his hands where they were, still holding her, albeit loosely. 

“You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?” He was looking down at her and Arya examined the lines of his smile as she thought about her reply.

“I don’t think you mind so much.” She smirked and stepped out of his arms. “I’m hungry, we should go back. You came to fetch me for lunch, didn’t you?”

“As my Lady commands,” he said, pushing off the tree to follow her. Arya rolled her eyes as she turned and headed out of the shadow of the Heart Tree. “Spying is not very lady-like you know.”

“I told you, I’m not a lady.” Arya called back as she reentered the glass gardens, immediately feeling the wet warmth roll over her. 

“That’s too bad,” Gendry said as he caught up with her.

“Why? You only want a Lady now that you think you’ll be Lord of Storm’s End, Ser Gendry?” She elbowed him in the ribs with a small laugh. “That’s not very fair at all.”

He ducked his head with a smile and she saw a creeping flush spread from the base of his neck to dapple across his cheeks. He grabbed her cloak from the pedestal and they switched hurriedly before going out into the cold. “Well,” she said pressing him, “why’s that then?”

“It’s just-before I came to get you, I might’ve broken Ser Alyn’s nose.” He ducked his head again and swung the door open.

“What? Why’d you go and do that?” Not that the idea displeased her at all, far from it.

“I was defending your honor,” he said as if it was the most rational answer he’s ever heard. Her mouth dropped open and he took that moment to step out into the blistering chill of the yard and start walking quickly towards the castle.

“I can defend my own honor, you stupid!” She shouted as she took off at a sprint to catch up with his significantly longer legs.

He was grinning so broadly when she caught him she thought his face would crack in half like an Osprey egg. He stopped to face her and when Gendry bent slightly she thought he was going to kiss her again but he didn’t. Instead he rested a hand on her head and ruffled her hair a little before letting his fingers fall down to cup her face. 

“I know you can,” he said softly.


	10. The Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting ready to go.

“We leave at first light. It’s almost 60 leagues here to Winterfell by the Kings Road and we’ll need all the light we can get. If Lord Karstark is correct and we ride hard through the day and night we should make it there before morning. I don’t want to travel through the night but I would sooner ride in the dark then set up camp with wights and the North beasts hunting.”

Ser Jaime was sitting comfortably at the head of the table with Lady Brienne on his right and Ser Balman on his left. Arya was still picking at her mutton and onions even though they were cold because she and Gendry were late for lunch. Most everyone else was finished but remained only to listen to their commander

“I’ve sent a raven ahead to Castle Cerwyn. They’ll have mounts for us. These horses are bred for snow-riding, as all Northern beasts, but even they have a limit. We’ll not repay the Karstark’s hospitality with dead horses. There are no rooms there. The castle is not yet rebuilt. Mayhaps a rest in the stables with the beasts but nothing more, we press on.”

“Who holds Castle Cerwyn, my Lord?” Ser Alyn was seated, and in a rather dour mood, beside Ser Balman with linen wrapped about his head to keep his nose steady. When he spoke it sounded like he had linen in his mouth. Arya couldn’t help the smirk that spread across her lips when she examined the black eye blossoming over the right side of his face. There was already a dark purple bruise staining his left cheekbone. It looked as though Gendry had, in point of fact, broken Ser Alyn’s nose. The Blacksmith could not be persuaded to tell Arya what exactly Ser Alyn had said but she could assume from Ser Alyn’s behavior previously that it was probably lewd and he deserved what he got. Most like, anyway. 

“Not the Cerwyn’s, there aren’t any left. The castle is being held by Hallis Mollen, a good Lord and loyal to the Starks. He escorted Ned Stark’s bones back to Winterfell and was one of the only men to survive the Bastard of Bolton.” 

Arya remembered Hallis, he wasn’t very sharp she thought but he had always been kind to her. Harwin used to jape about him always saying the obvious.

“Brienne and I shall take the lead with Podrick, followed closely by Ser Alyn on the left flank. I would like our Northern guest and her guard next. Ser Gendry, you’ll take the right flank but I want you to ride so close to the Lady you could be sharing saddle.” Gendry nodded beside her in understanding but said nothing. “Ser Balman, that leaves the rear to you and Aemon. You shall have the remaining wildfire. Lord Karstark says the wights are less prevalent the closer to Winterfell we get, the Northmen and their wolves have hunted much of them down. However we will be prepared, I’ll not have us caught unawares again.”

Arya less than demurely licked her fingers clean and wiped her hands on the napkin in her lap. She steadied her fingers and as she dirtied the cloth and gripped it unevenly. She was so close, so close to home, and her fingers trembled with restlessness. She was ready t o leave right then if they’d asked her, not that she would have heard them over the pounding of her heart. She took a few deep breathes, expanding her diaphragm and listening to the blood rush in her ears. It felt as though one wrong move would wake her from a dream in her loft above Izembaro’s daughters, with the heat and humidity of a morning in Braavos rolling over her from the terrace. Her family, both the living and the dead, waited for her in the halls of her ancestors and she ached for them. It was a gnawing in her gut that had never truly gone away but had only slept while she’d been gone, like a curled up dragon. Now that her dragon was close to getting what it wanted he breathed fire in her belly and it flickered behind her eyes in the shape of tall towers and strong granite walls. 

When Ser Jaime was finished discussing the matters of travel and the last baked apple had been savored the party broke apart to pack their bags and take care of their own travel arrangements. Before they dispersed, however, Ser Jaime made quick work of chastising both Ser Gendry and Ser Alyn for their disagreement. Ser Alyn he reprimanded for being stupid enough in the first place to insult Arya in Gendry’s presence and Ser Gendry he reprimanded for not coming to Jaime instead of injuring one of their small band. It was short and Arya thought the older knight felt more amused than agitated at the situation. Ser Alyn agreed with Arya’s opinion, it appeared, because he stomped out rather soon after.

Arya and Gendry returned to their room, at a more sedate pace, where Arya gathered the items she borrowed to return to Lady Karstark: a pair of slippers, a fur-lined cloak and one or two ribbons from her hair (worn in favor of her scrap of leather on their first night). Gendry left at the same time as she did, telling her he would meet her later. He wanted to check the shoes on the horses himself. There was an awkward moment between them as their paths diverged, that Gendry filled by kissing the back of her hand. He rushed off immediately after. Arya shook her head, he was as nervous as a cat in a canal. She tried not to the think about it and began to make her way to Beth. Arya was almost half way to Lady Karstark’s chamber when she remembered the leather gloves on her nightstand. With a groan she rushed back to grab them before heading to Lady Karstark. She’d taken the gloves two nights back to play a small prank on Gendry and she was sure Beth hadn’t even noticed them missing.

She, Ser Balman, and Gendry had been practicing in the yard two nights past and while they fought Gendry landed a blow on her that knocked her into the snow. In a fit of false irritation she feigned fatigue and headed to the castle, imploring him to stay in the yard. She quickly fetched a pair of leather gloves and her thicker cloak and returned rather sneakily to where the two nights still fought. Once there she climbed up on top of the roof of Moat Cailin’s stables and waited. Finally after what seemed like ages, but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, she happily shoved an eave full of snow onto Ser Gendry as he blocked an attack from his older companion. Unfortunately her revenge also caught a shocked Ser Balman on the head. Neither was happy when they realized it was Arya who had done the pushing. They displayed their displeasure by pelting Arya with snowballs for the better part of an hour as she ducked, dodged, and returned fire. 

With a smirk Arya continued through Moat Cailin’s somewhat deserted feeling halls. When she found Beth the Lady of the house was practicing her needlepoint in her solar with a handmaiden. Her stitches, Arya noticed, were beautiful and precise. Long flowering vines slithered across the edges of the creamy fabric and Moonflowers burst out of the center. Her needlework was like Sansa’s used to be, it was all blossoms and creeping plants in the light and lovely colors of summertime. Beth graciously accepted Arya and offered her wine but flat out refused the return of both the slippers and the cloak. Arya, she said, would need the items much more than her since she was so disposed to being outside on horseback. The slippers, she claimed, no longer fit her and made her feet uncomfortably hot besides. When Arya protested that she had intended only to borrow the items Lady Karstark merely took back the ribbon and the gloves. Arguing was futile and Arya admitted that both items would be useful to her. She thanked Beth for the gifts and gave her word if Beth should need anything in the future all she had to do was ask and Arya would do whatever was in her power to assist. She hesitantly hugged her when Beth opened her arms, although it made Arya think of Jory. When she left Lady Karstark her heart was like steel in her chest, heavy and malformed. She was quickly being reminded why it was so difficult caring for people, because they died or left you.

Arya wanted to fight someone, she wanted to hit something, but the day was wasting away and nighttime was blackening the sky even as she walked. Her day had been long and although she couldn’t wait for it to be over, there where things that needed sorting out. 

Things like Gendry and his legitimization for a start. Ser Jaime would vouch for him and that would help but Gendry had never run a castle nor had he, to her knowledge, ever taken much interest in the running of one. Then, even if Daenerys Targaryen did legitimize him, what would he do next? Would he take Storm’s End? He’d have no idea what the small folk would need from their lord. If he didn’t go to the Storm Lands would he stay with her at Winterfell? That’s even if he intended to stay with her. And if he did, would they be married? 

To her father and in the eyes of the Old Gods he gave her his cloak before a Heart-Tree, which is tantamount to marriage in the North. Of course, he didn’t know that because he doesn’t follow the Old Gods, he just thought she looked cold. Still, nothing is chance. There is no chance, only what a woman makes for herself. Izembaro would say the boy was married to her if she willed him to be so. Did she will it? What would it mean to be married to Gendry, to be his Lady? 

If they were married then the Queen in the North and the Dragon Queen couldn’t contest him staying with her, which is a start. It may actually help with his legitimization. As Ser Jaime put it, she could help to rule his castle. She’d never wanted to run a Lord’s castle before but she was certain Gendry would not be able to do it himself let alone appoint an advisor who actually knew what they were doing. If she held him to it and said they were married it would prevent her sister from marrying her off as a princess for the “good of the realm.” She would not be used for any pacts between Sansa and some fat Lord. If Arya went to Storm’s End, if that was where they seated Gendry, she could act as a promise of peace between the two kingdoms. 

Arya growled to herself. She hated politics and the whole time she’d been concentrating on her thoughts she hadn’t been paying attention to where she’d been going. She was wondering towards the rookery and promptly spun on her heal and headed back towards the Gatehouse tower and her room.

Arya wanted to lie on her bed and sleep away the evening and wake fresh after several hours of sleep to ride to Winterfell but when she returned to her room Maester Pierce was inside shaving Gendry’s beard. It had been thin and a bit stubbly but Arya hadn’t minded the feel so much. To see Maester Pierce shaving it off made Arya laugh even though Gendry appeared decidedly somber. When Gendry heard her sniggers he told her, with a bit of a huff, not to be stupid and that it would be back afore she knew it. 

Gendry looked different without the dark hair on his chin, younger. He looked very much how he’d looked when she knew him, before the wars, and not how she’d grown accustomed to seeing him of late. After not too long Maester Pierce left, he was on his way to shave Ser Jaime and Sers Alyn and Balman next after that. They were to look well-groomed for their admittance to Winterfell at Ser Jaime’s demand. 

She and Gendry quickly packed the few belongings they had left and sent them along with Aemon and Pod so their horses could be saddled and properly equipped in the morning. Gendry sat down to polish his war hammer, which he informed her was called Steel Song, and an array of other weapons. She had the feeling her formidable Master-Armourer was somewhat out of his depth and she was fine taking a break. Arya curled up to watch the fire and easily drifted to sleep to the sound of his cloth buffing the fine metal. 

Her head was full of Winterfell and her siblings so it was no surprise that was where her dreams wandered. She was in the crypts, walking past the great Kings in the North. The damp that was always in the air of the crypts hung heavy and cold around her and tiny rivulets of water ran down the walls. The crumbling fingers of dead kings gripped rusted swords across their laps and their ever watchful eyes followed her as she passed. She noticed some were missing their swords and she angrily thought of robbers and thieves desecrating the tombs of her family. She promised herself she would replace their swords but kept walking. The statues seemed taller then they used to be, more looming than she remembered. She was walking towards her father’s statue, which she had yet to see, when something off to the right caught her eye. She turned her head to find the statue of her Aunt Lyanna Stark, the only woman in the crypts. The statue was beautiful but as Arya stepped closer the head turned down to regard her and a stiff hand of stone reached out to take hold of her. Arya was too horrified to scream, she only backed away. She was prepared to run but she hesitated as the statue slowly stood. Arya was paralyzed, the statue changed, it was no longer Lyanna Stark. It was her mother, Lady Catelyn. 

No, Arya thought, she wasn’t supposed to be here. Lady Catelyn would never have a statue in the Crypts, she wasn’t a Stark. Arya turned away from her mothers stony, grasping hands, and bolted back the way she came. When she reached the steps three wolves were waiting for her, blocking the way. She barreled towards them, howling. She howled so shrilly that the walls began to crumble around her as she ran, the old stone shaking apart. 

When she reached the fresh air she gulped it down like water. At her side were the wolves from the mouth of the crypt but they weren’t growling, or chasing, or trying to bite her-they were running with her. She stopped and the halted as well. Then, one by one, they nuzzled her side and chest in greeting. The largest, a brilliant white wolf with red eyes that pierced the darkness, lapped at her face. The two slightly smaller wolves, one silver-gray and the other inky black with eyes the color of summer grass, pressed their faces to her neck and back lovingly. Arya basked in the warmth of affection and of was soon running and playing amongst the trees. She was only brought back to herself when she recognized the trees of the godswood flying by here as she ran. The wolves jumped and played around her, weaving through the trees and snapping at each others heels but Arya went straight to the Heart-Tree. 

Arya stopped to drink on her way because she had a thirst and briefly examined her reflection. What she saw did not surprise her. She had sable and white hair, perky ears that twitched as she listened to the other wolves at play around her, and intelligent golden eyes. She turned away and approached the huge weirwood tree. She remembered sitting with her father there when he would polish Ice. She curled up on the log and thought of her father and his sword, of Gendry and his hammer. Suddenly she stiffened and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. She picked her head up and scanned the clearing. She saw no one and heard no one. The other wolves were past this place and she couldn’t smell any men but still the feeling persisted. Arya turned to stare at the Heart-Tree. The shiny red-sap eyes seemed to beckon her closer. She walked along the log to the tree, until she was almost even with those red eyes. She waited and watched but nothing happened. With a huff she was about to go back to her seat when she heard it, a whisper in the wind, in the leaves, “Arya?” 

 

“Arya? My Lady?” Arya’s eyes blinked open and she sat up rapidly, accidentally knocking heads with Gendry who had been leaning over her.

“Ow!” Gendry fell back holding his forehead. “What you do that for!?” Arya fell back with her hand on her forehead and cursed.

“Why’d you go and walk me up? I was having a good dream.” Gendry cocked his head.

“It didn’t sound like a good dream, you were panting and your head was shaking and you even screamed. I thought you would wake up on your own but you didn’t.”

“I dreamt I was a wolf. I was Nymeria.” Gendry sat back up and rested on his outstretched hands behind him. 

“Was Nymeria your wolf? You, your sister and brothers, you had Direwolves didn’t you?” 

Arya nodded, “How did you know?” 

He shrugged, “Ser Jaime told me. When I told him I was with Lady Brienne to help look for you he asked why and I told him I knew you. He said you two had been acquainted as well and I asked him to tell me what he knew.”

“What did he say?”

“That you were always filthy, you were a better archer than your brothers, you played swords with anyone that would have you, you were always late, and you disarmed his nephew and set your wolf to maul the boys arm.”

“I did not! Joffrey was a lying. He was always a liar!”

Gendry nodded, “he said the realm would have been better off if your wolf had killed King Joffrey instead of mauling him.”

Arya let it sink in. Joffrey was Jaime’s son, if the rumours were to be believed. In that moment she felt, yet again, pity for the Kingslayer. His sister, his first son, his father and uncle and cousins-they were all casualties of the war, even if they did deserve it.

“I didn’t just wake you because I thought you were having a terror, dinner’s ready. Lord and Lady Karstark have thrown us a small feast to honor our party leaving tomorrow, come on.” He stood up and reached his hand down to help her up. 

She looked down at her breaches and tunic. They were clean but not necessarily formal attire. When she looked back up Gendry was smirking.

“You look well, m’lady.” He said and they headed towards the door. 

“I know.” She grumbled back at him. She wasn’t worried about her clothes, not really. It wasn’t a large feast and Beth knew Arya didn’t have any other dresses with her. Really, why would she?

Before they entered the hall Gendry tucked a bit of hair that had fallen loose from her braid behind her ear and gave her a small kiss at the corner of her mouth. She saw just from that quick burst of affection he was red from his ears to his collar. She rolled her eyes but followed him out all the same.

Dinner was short and simple but very delicious. It was just aurochs stew with large chunks of meat, fat cut potatoes and northern vegetables like onions and broad beans. The broth was thick and brown and deliciously flavorful in her mouth and seeped well into the crusty bread it was served with. Arya savored every drop knowing the morrow would bring her none of its savory goodness. The Kings Road could offer naught but cold meat and cheese.

The dining hall was awash with light from candles placed throughout and as the candles burned down and the stew was finished, the talk too began to pick up. Jamie and Balman traded japes while Lord and Lady Karstark discussed politics with her Maester Pierce and the injured Ser Wyl, who was finally fit to eat supper outside the Maester’s chambers (with supervision of course). Ser Gendry and Ser Alyn were attempting to get along because they were seated together but it seemed both knights were in no mood to pretend so Gendry joined conversation with Arya, Lady Brienne and the squires Podrick and Aemon. Ser Alyn turned his attention to Ser Wyl’s opinions of Kings Landing after the War of Five Kings. Before she knew it dessert was being brought out and Arya’s mouth watered at the sight of lemon cakes. Beth must have remembered how Arya and Sansa would fight over them in Winterfell. 

Lemon seeds were always so difficult to come by in the North and Arya was sure that had probably not changed. Her father would often bring the seeds back with him whenever he visited lands near to Dorne, which was very infrequently-only once or twice to her memory. Any tradesman or traveler who carried them could always find a buyer in Winterfell as well, but those were few and far between. Even so, acquiring the seeds was only half the battle. The other half was growing them. Her mother’s gardens were magnificent and rarely had a failure but the Dornish plant had proved more difficult to cultivate than any her mother had tried before, and yielded very little. An extravagance like lemon cakes just didn’t happen in the North but rarely. Still, when they were had, no two enjoyed them as much as Sansa and Arya. When they’d first gone South to King’s Landing Arya had glutted herself on the little pastries at every meal. Besides her family and Syrio, the lemon cakes were the only thing she liked about the city. 

Arya savored her first bite and the second after that, and third. She hadn’t touched so much as a drop of lemon juice in all the time she’d been in Braavos. They preferred a similar fruit, the lime-smaller with a bright green rind. It complimented the spicy flavors of Braavos and grew more abundantly in the red clay soil. As it were the Braavosi had no need for lemons so Arya had gone without. The desserts she’d grown accustomed to have also been courser and more often than not lacked the elegant sweetness of things like lemon cake. The delicate flavor of Westerosi desserts, especially Sothron ones, was completely lost on the people of Braavos. They favored thick honey rolls, crusty with sugar and filled with sweet red paste made from cooked lentils.

Once Arya came back to herself she noticed her immediate neighbors staring at her strangely. Gendry, to her right, had his thick black eyebrows furrowed deep over his eyes and Lady Brienne was blushing fiercely. Ser Jaime and Beth Karstark were smilingly at her, one amused and the other satisfied. 

“What are you looking at?” She bit out defensively at the crowd. She’d been moaning, aloud, as she ate. It was embarrassing. She was a water dancer and she’d been a faceless man. She should be aware of her surroundings at all times but more and more lately she found herself caught off her guard. It was unacceptable. She scowled. 

After a beat Gendry swung his face to look at his own dessert with sigh of, “nothing.” His neck was also reddening beneath his tunic and Arya couldn’t help the pride that stirred in her chest. She would have him. 

That night, as she changed for bed and Gendry politely left the room “in search of Jaime,” Arya slipped on her nightdress and let loose her hair. She’d known the women of pleasure houses and it was true that Leonessa of Braavos had been one of the famed ladies of the Black Pearl. She was not learned in the art of seduction nor any of the “Womanly Arts,” so called by Izembaro, but she had seen the way those women moved. It seemed to her similar to the way a water dance moved. Every muscle firm, every tendon pulled taught and exactly where it is meant to be. No errant part of your body, everything flowing and extended and the water dancer perfectly aware and yet gracefully surging and ebbing with the dance. Her needle was an extension of her arm, like Syrio taught her, so Arya would have to make Gendry an extension of herself as well. She was a water dancer and she would roll over him like the waves off the Braavosian Coast.

If only he was as constant as the coast. She impatiently crossed the room, treading circles in the thrushes across the floor boards. Stupid Gendry had been gone nigh on an hour when she finally crawled into bed frustrated. She counted to 100, just as Izembaro taught her, to relieve the tension but it didn’t work. She tried lounging on the bed, casually leaned against the headboard, with her body above their thick coverlet. She wasn’t entirely sure what she would do with herself. Eventually she went to her belt and pulled needle from the leather case she’d had made for it and swung the small blade casually. The room was spacious and her blade small, she thought she had enough room. She took the first side-face stance and extended her arm, letting the blade become a bone from her wrist. As she slashed and danced across the room she wondered what he and Ser Jaime could be discussing. She moved faster and faster, twirling and hacking with her tiny piece of steel, her last piece of Winterfell. She’d had many swords, many blades, since leaving her home but Needle always remained her favorite. It was the only piece of steel she owned which she thought deserved a name. When she finally heard steps outside their door Arya halted her movements. She thought of going back to the bed but as she heard the foot steps grow nearer she hesitated, not sure what to do.

When the door finally opened Gendry stepped in and froze. She was standing with her sword arm outstretched and Needle pointed towards directly at his chest. The position eased her nerves slightly. 

“M’lady.” Gendry nodded in greeting.

“Gendry,” she said in reply, dropping her arm and allowing him entry into their room. 

He went about changing for bed and she sat down casually and observed him, Needle across her lap. Arya, who had since their coming to Moat Cailin turned away from him as he unclothed, stared openly at his body. The Armourer, to his credit, did not turn from her but once. Even that she thought stupid because she had seen him completely nude before. Several times actually, if memory served her. It was different still. Seeing Gendry naked in the smithy of Harrenhal the night she plotted an escape in no way prepared her for seeing him as a potential lover. She felt a queer tightness in her belly that she thought might be desire as she watched the muscles in his arms, legs and back shift beneath his skin. He was strong from working a forge and wielding the steel he loved so much. He’d once told Hot Pie that the steel would sing for him when he hit it. Leonessa once said to her a clever woman cold make a man sing her his secrets in bed if she knew how to do so and Arya wondered if Gendry knew. She wondered if he could make her sing the way he made steel sing. A shiver ran through her. 

She wanted to go to him and see. She wanted to try her hand at something new and Arya wanted it to be with Gendry but when she searched out his eyes he had this pained look across his face. Arya had to hold back the sigh in her throat, she just knew he was about to say something stupid. 

“Forgive me my Lady but you’ll be sleeping alone tonight. I’ll build up the fire.”

“You won’t.” 

He turned to her and she saw him roll his eyes even though he dipped his head to hide it. She had a passing thought that maybe he spent too much time lately with high Lords but she ignored it. 

“You’ll be cold otherwise.”

“You could keep me warm.” She was firm. She wanted him to know that she meant what she said but his look was as bull-headed as ever. It seemed you could change the helm but not the man…

“We’ve shared a bed these past nights but-we can’t now.”

“Because you kissed me?” 

“My Lady, I didn’t-” he started but she stood up abruptly. She could tell from his face that he hadn’t realized how close to the bed he’d moved during their disagreement. 

“Is it because you want to kiss me again?” She stepped towards him. He didn’t back away as she thought he would. Instead he scowled down at her.

“You kissed me, my Lady high.” He was frowning and adamant. Arya smirked.

“You kissed back, Ser Stupid.” She cocked her head as his face reddened from anger. The bright blue of his eyes was relegated to a tiny ring as his pupils grew larger.

“I don’t know what you want.” His voice was tight and low. 

Arya let out a frustrated sigh. “I want you, I already told you.” She didn’t dare venture too close to him. She wanted to touch his skin, slick with sweat from the fire in the hearth.

“Yes, you said that. And how do you want me my Lady? I’ve been wondering, for your Lord?” He scoffed at her. “No, you never wanted a Lord. You said I loved you and you were right, but do you love me my Lady? Or is it you think your sister’ll marry you off and you want me to take your maidenhead before you’re wed to some high Northern Lord?” Arya stood stunned and silent. “Is that it? You want a tumble? Well you can find it with some dumb squire.” 

His voice was full of fury and Arya was taken aback. She remembered this fury, from the night they spent at the Peach. He’d been so angry with her he’d sent her away saying he would find that black-haired girl and ring her bell for her. He’d not gone though, he’d come upstairs and lain with Arya. She steeled herself and tipped her head back to meet his eyes.

“I don’t want a-a tumble!” She shouted angrily. “I said I want you. I want you to be, I don’t know, but not this. I didn’t ask you to take my maidenhead.”

“Really, you didn’t? That’s what would happen and you know it. Why else would you wear,” he gestured at her nightdress, “that?” 

It was her turn to flush. She had, she had wanted him to take her maidenhead, but she hadn’t really thought of it like that. She didn’t know what she’d thought. 

“So you don’t want you to leave me again, you stupid. I want you to stay with me and what’s so wrong with wanting you anyway?”

His response was clear and quick. “I said I wouldn’t leave you.” His hand moved up, as though to reach out for her, but he stilled it. It did not go unnoticed.

“Ever?”

“Ever.”

“And if you go, I’m going with you. To Storm’s End, or wherever you go.”

“You are.”

“What if you’re not legitimized? Will you leave then?”

“I’ll smith for your sister if she’ll have me.” His voice was solemn and Arya saw her chance. The color had gone down in his face and he no longer clenched his fists at his sides. Leonessa said men were easy, and she was right, they wore everything on their faces.

“And you’d warm my bed for me?”

His eyes widened slightly but she kept her face passive. 

“M’lady,” he started, but she continued.

“If I asked you-because I like you-to warm my bed, would you? Even if you’re just a knight, if you are just a smith at Winterfell?”

“It wouldn’t be proper.”

“But would you?” She stepped closer to him, impossibly close, close enough to feel the heat of his skin.

“I would.”

She tilted her face and went up on her toes. This time Gendry met her half way and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her up off the floor and into the kiss.


	11. On the Road Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Resistance is futile.

She could not pull him down to her. He was too big, too strong. Arya had to settle with pulling herself further up to him with her arms wrapped around his neck and her tongue tracing patterns on his lips, waiting to be let in. He opened his mouth beneath hers and he groaned with the intrusion of her tongue. Arya was startled when his legs sank and they tumbled on to the bed behind her. Still her bastard smith was courteous and she felt his arms tense as he braced himself above her so his weight would not crush her into the featherbed. He had at least one arm busy supporting his torso and the other she felt hot against her side. Gendry’s fingers were rhythmically stroking her side while he pressed hot kisses along her neck and collar bone. Arya stretched below him, twisting in his grasp, loving the feeling of his kisses peppered on her skin. 

She unlocked her arms and buried one hand in his thick mop of hair. She wandered her other hand into more unusual territory. First trailing down from his neck where she could feel his pulse quickening beneath her fingers. Then her palm slid onto his broad chest and deftly slipped underneath his tunic to the slick, hard muscle beneath. She could feel the cords of muscle over his stomach and chest tight with effort. He twitched nervously as her fingers traced over his skin. Soon enough she was fumbling with the leather laces of his breeches and just as suddenly as they had begun Gendry halted. Arya quickly gripped the laces tight in her hands and held them, held him. He could stop but she would be sure he could not leave.

“We cannot.” His voice was firm but deepened from their activities. She’d been studying him, as she studied everyone, and come to a few conclusions. One of which was when he lusted his voice rumbled lower than usual. It sent shivers through her to hear, even though Arya knew this to be not uncommon in men.

She was steady, she had been expecting this. She would not force him. She knew she might easily be able to sway him in this state, having gone much further than they had done, but she wouldn’t.

“If there is still a chance I could spare your honor I would not-” his voice broke here and Arya had to wait for him to compose himself before her went on, “have you before we’re wed, m’lady.”

He was so proper for a boy who grew up on the Street of Steel.

“My Lady,” she said. “Not m’lady or milady, lords say MY lady.” She released the leather bindings on his breeches and nodded at him firmly. “Okay.”

Gendry stood straight and looked down at her with his head tilted.

“Really? Okay?”

“Yes, it’s okay. I understand that this is important to you.”

The shock on his face was evident and it almost made Arya laugh. She hoped he didn’t expect to win every argument this way because he would be in for a very nasty surprise. “Thank you, my lady. Your honor is very important to me and-” he hesitated and Arya inclined her head. When he didn’t speak she nudged him further.

“And what?”

“I wouldn’t put a bastard in your belly. I know-”

“It wouldn’t be a bastard.” Arya had piped up almost instantly and just as quickly she regretted it. She had intended to keep her secret of the Heart Tree to herself. Gendry intended to wed her, why should she tell him now? Arya thoughts burst suddenly with possibilities. Would it matter if he didn’t worship her father’s gods, her gods? He only knows Septs and Septons, like her mother. Would he honor a vow made without the Seven? Would it bother her if he wouldn’t? 

His voice pulled her from reverie.

“How do you figure that?” His face was curious and she could tell he still wanted her, would mayhaps take any reason she gave him so that he could have her and his honor. If she told him they were already bound by her gods, the Old Gods, would he lie himself over her again? Would he fill her to aching and kiss the sweat from her brow as he rocked above her. She had not only seen whores and their patrons. Arya had seen people make love in Braavos, she had seen them dance. Leonessa called it Bollera, one of the many dances of the Braavosi. If Arya told Gendry he was already her husband would he remove her nightdress and kiss every inch of her bare skin? Perhaps he would bury his face between her thighs and coax her to crying his name with his lips and tongue? Or would he slide his fingers within her roughly and catch the tips of her breasts one by one between his teeth? 

No. 

She pushed away the desire she felt and looked at the man before her. Regardless of what kind of lover he would be to her later he was concerned with honor now. Even though she took their exchange as true and her father would have taken Gendry as a son, Gendry himself had not those intentions and so she would not dishonor him. The Storm Lands will be lucky, she thought, to have such a ruler. 

“My lady?” Gendry asked her again.

Arya did what she thought best, she lied. “We’re betrothed, aren’t we?” He nodded slightly, looking confused. Arya relaxed, he promised her formally and it made something flutter in the pit of her stomach. She ignored it and continued. “The child would be born after we would be married, then it would not be a bastard.

“It would still dishonor you and your house.”

“I know,” she huffed, forgetting the lie and letting herself be content that she had done the honorable thing whether she liked it or not. “But it’s stupid.”

“Well, my lady, you think a lot of things are stupid.” He chuckled at her and Arya could physically feel the air around her cool down as she continued to accept that he would not be between her thighs that evening.

“I think you’re stupid,” she huffed again and flopped backwards on the bed.

Gendry bent at the waist with his hands on his hips and leaned over her. “Maybe I am, but I’ve got honor and courtesies and a brash little girl who wants me to come with her.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I’m not a little girl.” She sat up to meet his eyes. 

“No, you’re not but you’re brash all the same.”

The rolled her eyes. “Sansa will love you.”

“I only care that you will, my lady.” He pushed a few strands of hair from her face before she nodded at him firmly. He smiled down at her before playfully shoving at her shoulder. “I’m getting undressed and getting into that bed. If you so much as put one of your little fingers past my waist I’ll be out of it and on Ser Jaime’s floor before you can spit. Now, budge up.”

Arya laughed as she shifted over to accommodate his bulk. He wrapped her in a blanket and his arms before they fell asleep.

It was only just dawn when Aemon started knocking at their door to wake them. Arya and Gendry, now practiced at early mornings in Moat Cailin, rose without much pretext and dressed quietly in the near darkness.

The whole troupe was on the road within the hour, just in time to finish watching the winter sun rise over the shimmering snow covered bogs.

Gendry, true to Ser Jaime’s orders, rode his horse so close to hers she could have slid out of her saddle and into his if she’d wanted to. The going was slow and steady, allowing the horses to take their time walking through the snow. It was not always deep but there were drifts over 4 feet high in some places. The garrons were steady beasts, stout and sure-footed, but they were not meant to be ridden hard and fast over snow covered terrain. Snow and rock took navigation and a slower pace. Also, while the mounts knew the terrain, the riders did not. 

Arya had a good seat, along with Ser Jaime, but the rest of the group were more unfamiliar, especially the squires. They rode awkwardly, making the long miles more difficult for the horses. Eventually, although they had departed with a strong formation, the pattern shifted and broke down. It left Arya riding alongside Ser Jaime at the front of their little caravan. The Kings Road, mercifully, had been cleared of much of its forest so the smallfolk could feed their fires. This meant it was very easy to see for miles around them as they traveled. It made Arya more comfortable, being out of the more wooded areas, even if it meant they could also be seen. Shadows had been Arya’s place in Braavos, and in King’s Landing when she was a child, and they had made her feel safe. However the more one lives in the Shadows the more one sees of the others who live in shadows also. She knew too well the things that lurked behind trees and skulked in the periphery for she had been one of them.

“Your mother saved my life you know.” Arya was startled out of her musings but tried not show it. She could fall easily out of practice if she became too comfortable. As it was she had not been so relaxed in many years as she had allowed herself to become in the most recent weeks. She easily turned her head to Jaime, who had broken their companionable silence and regarded him coolly. 

“And why did she do that, Ser?” Arya thought about saying something kind about her mother or something kind about Jaime, expressing her gratitude, but she felt like the courtesy would be lost on the older knight. He didn’t seem to hold much stock in false pleasantries and she’d always been rubbish at giving them. She remembered that about Ser Jaime from her time in King’s Landing. He was like his brother, The Imp, and King Robert in that way. Out of the three men who Arya had known in that time she only remembered the Imp as having any real talent for false pleasantry. Tyrion Lannister was almost as good at it as Sansa. His, however, were more often barbed than not. 

“She wanted you and your sister back. Of course, I vowed to her I would get them back, not that she believed me of course. I have done your family many grievous wrongs, little wolf, and your mother regarded that most keenly. She trusted Brienne though, my guard for much of the trip and cellmate for much more of it. As it turns out I never did get the chance until now. I returned to King’s Landing to find your sister gone and that you were never there. Disappeared the day your father was taken prisoner. Seems Stark women have a way with disappearing.”

Arya didn’t respond. She was still waiting and she got what she waited for.

“I would have died in the cells at your brother’s camp, if it could be called a cell. He didn’t want to kill me, your brother. Robb Stark was an honorable man, like your father.”

Arya was tense in her saddle, her body rigid at his words. He spoke of her mother, her brother, her father. Flashes in her mind of lessons skipped in favor of practice with a bow, stood between Robb and Jon. Jon would tell her ‘keep your arm steady’ and Robb would place his hand at her back, making sure she stood straight. Memories of her mother braiding her hair, telling her stories of Visenya Targaryan and Queen Nymeria bubbled to the surface of her mind and the feeling of her father’s strong hands when he would lift her into his lap before the fire. 

“Your mother, desperate to have you returned to her, defied her son’s orders and released me.”

Arya gritted her teeth, the memories of her mother seeping into her mind. Her soft, warm hands ghosted of a brush on her cheek. Her smile. Her auburn hair, so like Sansa’s. Arya had always been a Stark, always more like her father than her mother. But it did not mean that there was less love there. 

“Why are you telling me this?” She ground the words out with an effort to keep her composure but it sounded courser than she intended. 

“I owe it to you. Your mother saved me and I could do nothing for Sansa but I could do something for you. If you stay with him, at Castle Cerwyn, we will return for you after the wedding. Brienne and I, we would not tell the either queen you were ever here. I know you intended on going to Winterfell but it seems now,” and here Ser Jaime’s head nodded to Gendry a few paces behind them, “it could cost you something you do not wish to part with. If you wanted to run I would protect your secret. You would both have a place in Tarth, Master Armourer and perhaps our Master-at-Arms? I would see to it.”

She hadn’t expected that. Was she that transparent? Her nerves, she thought, were understandable considering her situation. Her family would have changed, much as she had done, and was it wrong to fear they would not accept her? Arya was aware of this fear of hers before she had set foot in Westeros. She’d been prepared for it. Fear, she knew, cut deeper than swords. Take that though, and add to it a royal bastard who she had thought never to see again and it further complicated things. She felt things for Gendry that she hardly understood, let alone could explain. Still, after all the running, the hiding, and the fighting-she needed rest and Winterfell. Braavos was lovely and exotic and strange and everything Arya wanted it to be except it was not, and could never be, her home. She had not come to Westeros for adventure, she had come for respite. Arya yearned for her family for so long it ached. To have the chance and let it slip through her now deft fingers felt like a fresh betrayal. She’d run once, she would not run again. Arya Stark was in the North and she would do what she had come to do. She was no lady and she would not go back to dresses, plaits and pleasantries. No, surely they wouldn’t expect that. They would take her for her because Sansa and Jon, Bran and Rickon, they needed her. She was a part of their pack and she had been gone too long. There was work to be done.

Arya shook her head at Ser Jaime with extra emphasis, for it was thickly bundled for warmth. She would return to Winterfell as she had left it those many years ago, with Needle in her belt and a man she loved at her side. 

“Thank you, but no.”

He nodded in return. “Very well, I will do all I can for his cause.” Jaime inclined his head again towards Gendry. She looked back as well for a moment and was struck with how much he looked like King Robert. If the King hadn’t gone to seed amidst his misery and drunkenness, and if he had stayed happy and perhaps hadn’t a Kings crown on his head. Gendry’s seat, while inexperienced, was firm and smooth. His chin square, his eyes clear and blue as the darkest, most stormy, skies. His coal black hair was soft and full. Gendry was well-built and he was honorable, he would make a good lord for the Strom Lands and if the Dragon Queen couldn’t see that then she would be a very poor queen for Westeros.

Eventually Brienne made her way back to the front of the line and Arya easily fell back, her horse in step with Gendry’s. He asked if she’d had a good talk with Ser Jaime and she nodded. No sense telling him what the knight had said, it wasn’t of consequence. 

“And how did you fare with Ser Alyn and Lady Brienne?”

He laughed, “I wished you were here.” His words made her blush but she knew he couldn’t tell because her face was half covered and the rest was red from cold and the wild northern wind. So she smiled beneath the cloth over her mouth and didn’t say anything. 

The sun dipped below the horizon long before Ser Jaime expected it to, thankfully they saw Castle Cerwyn’s silhouette before it did. They headed that direction, as quickly and carefully as they could, and as the last pink rays in the sky died the small castle opened its frost-covered gates to them. 

The small band was sodden, bedraggled, and shivering as they passed beneath the thick grey stones of Castle Cerwyn. Hallis Mollen was waiting for them. He was a large man, gruff, and looked to be nine and thirty, at the youngest, if Arya had to wager a guess. To the others he might look older but she new how rough the North could be on a man. Hallis was standing at the gate with two stable hands and two more squires. He also had a man with him, another Lord or perhaps a knight, a ruddy faced Northman at least. They were dressed in the mottled grays and greens of northern rough spun cloth and the rich reddish browns and whites of fox fur. 

Arya hopped from her mount gratefully if not gracefully, Gendry was beside her before she could take even one step from her horse.

“Byron, Emrick! Get these garrons in the stables! Lyn, Harys! Get them bags off there and somewhere dry.” Hallis, Arya saw, was a man of action and the boys moved dutifully to their work as the riders dismounted. “Mandon, I want those rooms ready. We’ve got guests this evening.”

Ser Jaime moved to speak but Lord Mollen held up his hand. “Ser,” then he gestured to include Brienne as well, “My Lady, I understand from your raven that you wish to ride on but I can’t have it. I’ve lived through enough winters to know if you left now, even on fresh horses, I wouldn’t be seeing you lot again until the spring thaw.”

He led them to their room and left them to change and prepare it as they saw fit. The promise of food kept Arya awake and she observed Jaime closely as they made quick work of the room.

Ser Jaime looked disappointed but resigned. It was plain that Ser Jaime desperately wanted to see his brother. Arya could read it in the lines around his eyes and the set of his jaw. They had tarried at Moat Cailin for Lady Brienne and Ser Wyl to recover as best they could and Jaime had hoped to already be in Winterfell. Arya paused to wonder at the odd relationship. She remembered very vaguely that Cersei had hated her youngest brother. Jaime, however, seemed to hold him in very high esteem. Then again, Jaime and Cersei proved to be more dissimilar than Arya had assumed them to be. From what Arya remembered from meeting the Imp at Winterfell he had been rather clever and he seemed to like Jon. And so Arya had liked him. Although, it would have been enough just that the Queen had disliked him. 

When Arya killed Cersei Lannister it had been a relief, a weight off her shoulders that had been pressing into her from the day Arya ran from the Red Keep. Her satisfaction though, however great, was tempered by the fact that the woman was already half dead when Arya found her, a shell of the monolith she once was. Her eldest son was dead and her youngest was leagues away in a city she felt would be hostile to him. Her only daughter was captive in Dorne. Her father and uncle were killed, both. She had no one. She sent Ravens, the handmaidens told Arya, everyday. She wrote one to little Prince Tommen, one to her daughter Myrcella, and one to her brother Jaime. The handmaidens told Arya that their Lady waited everyday on the same stone catwalk, looking out at the sea. She was always waiting for the return of the ravens. The girl wrote most days but not all, the boy’s letters were more sporadic still. The brother, they said, never once replied. 

The morning of Cersei Lannister’s death she waited for her Ravens, as always, but she got Arya instead. Though to tell it true Arya did little more than linger and observe. She didn’t have to push Cersei off the catwalk. The eldest lion was not the strong and confident, beautiful and fierce, Queen that Arya had known in her youth. This woman had wanted to jump. In the end all Arya had to do was watch as the despairing woman leapt into the Sunset Sea, her body broken on the jagged scree below Casterly Rock. 

Arya shook off the memory and the damp from her hair in the same motion and observed her surroundings. They’d built a fire in the small bedroom they were to share and Ser Alyn was feeding the greedy flames until they roared in the hearth. Pod and Aemon were hanging the wet cloaks and other sopping items to dry carefully over a large grate. Gendry was laying out the furs that they were given and Arya was supposed to be helping him. She hastily resumed heaving the furs off the pile and laying them out on top of each other to cover the large floor sized pallet they were to be sleeping on. Ser Balman returned shortly with hot broth and large chunks of black bread for them to eat before retiring and Lady Brienne brought two large pitchers of ale to wash their dinner down with. All of this was done in the silence of the weary. Soon the broth was eaten and the ale pitchers drained, and as the fire crackled merrily in its hearth the band of travelers tucked in to sleep. Arya laid about a foot from her “protector” and feigned rest until all she could hear were the sounds of sleep. Then she wriggled across that one foot that seemed as wide and yawning as an ocean and folded herself into Gendry’s side. He awoke enough to wrap her in the cage of his arms before dropping off again and she slid easily into sleep.

The night had been hot with their chamber packed as it was and Arya felt a chill from the sweat on her skin when she woke. They rose quietly, first Lady Brienne and then Arya followed by Ser Jaime, Ser Balman, Gendry, the squires and, lastly, Ser Alyn. Hallis greeted them with dried fruit and more black bread not long after they began to prepare for their journey. The donned their dried cloaks and made sure to check their packs were properly re-strapped to their horses, which were able to rest through the night, before leaving again.

The anticipation made Arya quieter and she judged by Gendry’s silence that he was nervous as well. Ser Alyn tried to sing a song with Pod and Aemon, much to Ser Jaime’s amusement but Ser Balman was less impressed with their performance and threatened to stab Ser Alyn if he didn’t stop when he began the fourth verse of “Durren and Elenei,” more often called “The First Storm King.”

The night before Arya had dreamt of wolves again. She was strong and sure-footed as she ran through the snows around the curtain wall of Winterfell with her brothers at her side. The four big Direwolves ran with a large pack of northern grey wolves and they stalked around the castle gates like lupine sentries. It had been a good dream but it was not enough to dream of the guards and the gates and the stables and the Godswood. No, she needed her mother’s solar and the great hall and the tall towers and the crypts below. She needed Sansa and Jon and Bran and Rickon. Castle Cerwyn is less than half-a-days ride from Winterfell and as the sun reached its highest point in the sky Arya’s heart leapt into her throat. They could see the smoke coming from the hearths of the smallfolk in Winter Town. Normally the town of outside of Winterfell’s walls is more or less empty but when the winter comes, as it always does, the smallfolk come to Winter Town to more easily live together. She could see the towers reaching up into the white-grey sky like broken teeth in mouth of a face carved into a Heart Tree.

“There it is,” she breathed to Gendry. 

Her voice was quiet but she was sure he heard her.


	12. Winter Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to Winterfell.

The curtain walls of her childhood home loomed high on the horizon. The towers silhouetted by the winter sun. The closer they rode the more anxious Arya became. All the towers looked like the broken tower. The granite stone was darker, blackened. The King’s Gate stood closed and she saw fires at the tops of the gatehouses, beacons for travelers. Arya could remember the lighted beacons from her childhood. They always lit them when men were a field. She used to love to follow Theon or Harwin or Robb whenever they told the guards to light the fires. She loved watching the sticks and red leaves burn. The heat was strong and would roll off the wood piles in waves, making her feel hot and safe. It was one of the reasons she’d loved sitting with Gendry and watching him smith when they were at Harrenhal. The forge heat always made her feel safe and Gendry was the embodiment of that heat. He had always made her feel safe. 

When she looked over at the bull-headed Master Armourer he met her eye and grinned wide, a grin to match the smile she knew was about to split her face in half. Everyone rode a little faster as the castle grew closer. The promise of warm food, soft seats, and plenty of drink raised their spirits out of the wet, sinking snow. They reached Winter Town within an hour and some. 

Arya tried her best to dip her head and not let anyone see her face. She desperately wanted to examine every brow and every smile for one that was familiar. She also desperately wanted to run her fingers over every crack and stone, every burn and mar that was done during the war so she could fix it. She wanted to build with a fury even Brandon the builder would have admired, and she didn’t want to stop until Winterfell stood as great as it ever was when the Kings of Winter ruled. However, Arya wanted to save the secret of her presence at Winterfell until she was ready to let it be known. She would not be paraded before her sister’s guests if she could help it. She wanted their reunion to be private, for her and her siblings only. Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne had agreed with this and promised to aid her but were unsure of their reception and said if asked directly they would admit her identity. They were expected and had let it be known how many would be accompanying them. If either queen got it in her head to inquire as to Arya’s identity, Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne couldn’t be dishonest. Ser Jaime had also written his brother a raven at their arrival to Moat Cailin, hinting at a secret guest. Tyrion promised him discretion. It bothered her but she couldn’t fault either one of them, she admitted it would be the honorable thing to do and Tyrion’s assistance in distracting Daenerys and Sansa would be welcome. 

They urged their horses forward and made their way through the market square of Winter Town, the smallfolk hardly noticing them. There have been a great many guests come to Winterfell of late, she supposed, for the impending nuptials of her sister. Truthfully, they were probably one of the last parties to arrive. There were to be representatives, said Jaime on word of Lord Hand Tyrion, from every kingdom in the realm. Some kingdoms, such as the Riverlands and the Neck sent two or three. Also, every house still intact in the North, all of the houses and Bannerman of Arya’s father and now under the dominion of the new Queen in the North, would be there as well. 

She recalled her studies to pull up what she knew of the great northern houses. There was White Harbor, the Dreadfort, Deepwood Motte, Moat Cailin (which she knew to be held by Arthor and Beth Karstark), Karhold (which Beth had made mention of as being held by Arthor’s cousin, Alys Karstark and her husband, a wildling man). Hallis Mollen was obviously rebuilding Castle Cerwyn. There was still Barrowtown, Flint’s Finger, Driftwood Hall and Hornwood, none of which she had word of. Lady Brienne had told her Bear Island was still in the hands of the Mormont’s, Alysane and Maege Mormont specifically. Greywater Watch was where Bran spent much of the time, as Gendry had told her, courting the crannog girl Meera. Last Hearth, Oldcastle, Ramsgate Widow’s Watch and Torrhen’s Square would also send envoys to Winterfell she thought. The North was vast and the losses, she grimaced, would have been great. It made her furious and she clenched her fists around the reigns of her garron.

There was a loud creak as the gates were opened and the guards called down for them to announce themselves. Lady Brienne did and the second curtain wall which was higher than the first by 20 feet, standing some 100 feet tall, loomed before them. It was said Brandon the builder built Winterfell with the help of giants. The draw bridge lowered from the second wall and crashed thunderously before them. Arya’s horse was startled but she mastered it. The mote around Winterfell rushed dangerously below the drawbridge and Arya made sure her neighbors were cautious. They had the horses carry them over it one by one just in case of a misstep, there would be more room for error.

Arya felt tears prick her eyes as they were lead to the stables by stable hands she didn’t recognize but she easily hid her face in her hood and steeled her look. She would not cry, she told herself. Not that it mattered. Her tears froze in tracks on her cheeks anyway. 

“My Lady Brienne of Tarth, her Grace, the Queen in the North, Sansa Stark of Winterfell, accepts you and thanks you for your attendance to her wedding to Lord Sandor Clegane. Her Grace is treating with the Queen Daenerys in the great hall and they wish to receive you once you’ve finished with your horses.”

“Thank you. Please tell her Grace we are honored and shall attend her shortly.” Said Jaime as Brienne hardly noticed the young squire who ran up to them. They were removing their packs and other items from their horses and Brienne had given her attention to the work at hand. Arya had the feeling that this was common place for the two. Brienne saw to the work and Jaime saw to the speaking. Arya searched the face of the squire before he left them but she did not recognize him either and it pained her heart. There was once a time when she knew every pair of eyes she would come across within Winterfell’s walls. She knew the sound of every footstep and who it belonged to and she new the name of every urchin who cleaned the stables and ridden every horse in them. 

Before long they were being escorted to the Great Hall and though much had not changed it was obvious to Arya much was rebuilt, or in many cases still needed rebuilding. The main structures of years old granite were the same and still as strong as they ever were but the stone was blackened and the wooden structures were in various states of disrepair. It was evident too that the hot springs still flowed for when she ran her fingertips along the beloved stone of her childhood it was warm and damp as she remembered it to be. 

She glanced sidelong at Gendry and found his eyes wide and his mouth hanging just slightly open. Gendry was in awe. He told her in hushed tones that although he had slept in Winter Town on their way to the North and again on his way back after the Battle on the Wall, he had never been in Winterfell himself. It seemed, in his eyes, very great and she was filled with pride because even though she’d lived here and could have easily taken it for granted she’d always thought it was special too. 

The Great Hall was near empty and Arya’s breath grew thick and ragged in her throat as they approached the throne of the Winter Kings. Four large and rather menacing looking Direwolves stalked around the edges of the room. One of which she knew instantly to be Nymeria. Arya was unsurprised but grateful all the same. The large wolf that she had recognized instantly seemed to recognize her as well and sniffed the air. It and made its way purposefully toward the group almost immediately. Sansa looked alarmed and attempted to call it off to no avail. When Arya realized that she would have to wait to greet Nymeria she mentally urged the wolf to halt and return to its former position. It worked, to her shock and gratitude, and at 20 or so paces away the wolf halted and after giving a small whine it returned to the edge of the room. The wolves no longer stalked the walls as sentries, however. Instead they stood clustered together, watching Arya and her friends from behind the throne. Sansa looked relieved and returned her attention to the party. Arya shifted her gaze from the wolves, and her beloved Nymeria, and settled her attention wholly on her older sister. 

Sansa sat there, as regal and beautiful as any woman could be. Her hair was still light, lighter than their Lady mother’s had ever been. It was a beautiful reddish gold and it flowed easily over her grey and white gown. Her skin was the pale pink and rosy and her eyes were the blue of sapphires, they shined out of her face like chips of ice in rose water. Her lips upturned in the smallest of smiles as she beckoned them closer. 

“Welcome to Winterfell Lady Brienne. You and your party are most treasured guests. How did you find the King’s Road? Not too difficult I hope.”

She was still sweet and polite and so very Sansa. Arya was afraid she might cry again so she quickly averted her gaze and she felt Gendry’s hand slip around her small fingers and give her a squeeze. Lady Brienne responded in kind, greeting both Queen’s and expressing her joy at being there. Arya spied the Lord Hand Tyron Lannister, sitting to Queen Daenerys’ right. He was smiling at Ser Jaime, although Arya did not recognize the smile. The small man had been made smaller by half a nose and he had a large gash in his lip. He has seen battle, she thought. Then again, so had they all. 

Queen Daenerys, beside the battered Imp, looked stunning. Her skin was dark where Sansa’s was light. Her hair a brilliant white blond, so typical of Targaryan’s if she was to believe the tales. She had violet, almond shaped eyes and dusky pink lips. Strangest of all was her small stature. Sansa had always been tall, taller then Arya by at least a head and half it still appeared, and lithe. Cersei had been similar and Arya had come to expect that of queens. Daenerys though, was smaller, closer to Arya in height, with wide hips and a generous swell of bosom. Arya had pictured the Dragon Queen to be tall and slight of shoulder, with narrow hips and a grim face. She had pictured, truthfully, some one more like the dead queen. Not someone so…feminine. She wore white furs over a gown of the softest gold and she was smiling.

Finally, after the introduction of Lady Brienne and the two young Queens finished, Tyrion Lannister stood and waddled towards them. “Dear brother,” Was all he said. Ser Jaime dropped to his knees and hugged the dwarf fiercely. It was a strange sight to see but it warmed her all the same. 

She eyed the rest of the people in the hall wearily. She was saddle sore and nervous and did not wish to be detected here. She recognized no one else, unsurprising since there were so few there. Daenerys and Tyrion to Sansa’s right, a guard to Sansa’s left. There was a dark girl who looked to be in service to Daenerys sitting on the floor beside Tyrion’s abandoned chair and a small, dark haired cupbearer who stood by for the Queen’s refreshment. It seemed the women and Daenarys’ Hand had been holding council with each other upon her party’s arrival. 

When the brothers broke apart they were smiling and japing. Arya thought they looked happier to be together then she had ever seen them and wondered at how they spent so much time apart. Tyrion turned his attention to the party then and his gaze lingered over Arya and Gendry, standing side-by-side and from Tyrion’s vantage point she was sure he saw that they were holding hands. She went to release Gendry but his hand was stronger and bigger than hers. He hardly noticed her movement and jerking her hand away would draw too much attention. She ended up leaving it and hoping Tyrion wouldn’t mention anything.

She needn’t have worried. Tyrion very carefully steered the conversation to dinner that evening and to the numerous guests within the castle currently. He ascertained how many rooms they would need from Brienne and promised his Queen’s to speak with Jon about getting the party settled. Both women seemed happy for it but Daenerys stopped them as they made their way out of the hall. 

“The bastard, the son of the usurper, which of you is he?”

Gendry froze. Ser Jaime nudged him forward and he almost forgot to release her hand before bowing to Sansa and the Dragon Queen. “My name is Gendry, your Grace, Gendry Waters.”

“You seek legitimization. Is this true?” Tyrion tried to interrupt and insist the matter could wait but Daenerys said she wanted it finished as soon as possible. She asked Sansa her feelings and Sansa agreed that she would have little time in the future to discuss the matter and wished it resolved before the wedding. It seemed to Arya that Sansa and the Dragon Queen had possibly spoken of it already.

“Then it is agreed, we shall hear the matter now. What recommends you for legitimization? Do you intend to hold Storm’s End?”

Gendry was silent for a beat but mustered himself and stood tall before them. “I would if the people would have me. I’ll speak plainly-I don’t know nothing of running a castle. I’m a smith, a Master Armourer for Evenfall Hall these past two years. I was knighted by Beric Dondarrion during the war and fought for Jon Snow on the wall. I know my letters some but I wasn’t raised to-” he paused and collected himself before rushing onward. “I wasn’t raised to rule.”

Daenerys nodded and Sansa too, seeming to come to a decision before he finished. 

“But my father was Robert Baratheon and aside from Edric, who has taken Dragonstone, I am the last Baratheon. I would be honored to rule the seat of my family.”

“I’m sure you are a good man. Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion have both confirmed that. You are honorable and just. You are not, however, fit to run a keep let alone be the Lord of such a vast and important kingdom such as the Storm Land’s.” 

Before she could continue Arya stepped forward. 

“What if he had someone willing to teach him, someone to run his castle?”

Sansa and Daenerys turned to her, startled. She had spoken in an accent similar to her own but she did not want to be immediately recognized.

“You mean a steward,” said Sansa, “or castellan?” 

“Perhaps I do, if a castellan would be enough for you.” 

“Storm’s End already has a castellan,” Interjected the Dragon Queen. “Why should I not make him the Lord of the Storm Lands?” She could see Gendry shaking and she knew he was thinking the same as the Targaryen queen but Arya refused to let him think himself not good enough.

“What if he had a Lady Wife, one who knew what it took to run a castle?” Daenerys smiled at Arya. She looked kindly, like her mother, and leaned forward. 

“And how would you have me convince a woman to take a husband with no-”

“You would not need to convince anyone to take him.”

“You believe in this bastard smith so well that you would interrupt your Queen? Engage in a private matter which does not concern you and argue his case. Who are you?” This was it. Arya steeled herself and begged the Mother and the Old Gods for mercy that Sansa would not be furious for what Arya was about to do.

Arya reached out and found Gendry’s hand. She wrapped her small fingers around his and let his heat seep into her skin. This was it, no more hiding. “I am,” she stopped to consider her name. She had been Beth, Cat, The Ghost and Nan. She’d been a Weasel and a boy named Arry going to take the black. She removed her hood and looked only at Sansa. “I am Arya Waters. I was once Arya Stark of Winterfell. Ser Gendry gave me his cloak in the shadow of the Heart Tree of Moat Cailin. I was a Lady once and I am his wife whether you legitimize him or no.” 

There were a few seconds of blessed silence in the Great Hall before Sansa shot to her feet. Gendry’s hand seemed to squeeze her involuntarily and she actually felt it dampen. A great intake of breath was heard but from which corner of the room she could not tell. It seemed to come from behind her and before her all at once. Mayhaps it did. 

“Arya!” Sansa’s shout brought Arya back to herself and she watched in a stupor as her sister flew from the throne of their fathers and down the steps towards her and Gendry. In a matter of mere seconds Arya was wrenched from Gendry’s grip as Sansa barreled into her. Her vision was obscured by red hair and grey fur and then the howling began. Howls echoed in the hall as the wolves fell about the two sisters licking and nipping at their clothes. Arya was stock still, unsure of what to do and hardly aware of the wetness leaking from her eyes. Sansa was sobbing and angrily mumbling admonishments into Arya’s shoulder. She could only make out half of them but they sounded vaguely threatening and were peppered with numerous whispers of “I love you.” 

With a loud crash the doors to the Great Hall were thrown open. The frantic howling of the beasts had caused a ruckus and several guards rushed in through the many doors leading into the hall. Arya and Sansa both looked up from their embrace to see the many figures silhouetted in the doorways. One Arya recognized instantly as Jon. He had on training leathers and his hair was as long and wild as she ever saw it. 

“Sansa?” He rushed in, obviously concerned but stopped short when Arya raised her head to him. Another figure, a boy, stopped closely behind him. The boy was small with grey eyes and a tangle of thick black hair. Rickon, it seemed, took after Jon and her as well. Arya found her voice with some difficulty and it cracked a little as she tried to keep it steady. 

“Jon. Rickon?” 

Sansa was still tangled in her arms and tears were tracking her pale cheeks but she looked almost dignified as she met Jon’s eyes. 

“She’s come back.” 

Arya had no words left in her and silently thanked Sansa for taking the responsibility. Jon broke then and Arya had no breath left in her as his arms clutched at her tunic and his kisses fluttered across her face and hair. He encircled her and Sansa too, in his arms. His words, unlike Sansa’s, were not admonishments but apologies. He’d looked for her, he said. He was so much like Gendry. 

Gendry.

She whipped her head around and saw, in the gap between Jon’s dark curls and her own arm wrapped around his neck, her husband. Only until that moment he had not known it. The significance of the act was lost on him. Being betrothed and being wed were two different things and their union was not consummated, hardly a union at all and yet still was. 

His skin was pale and damp, she could tell from 10 paces away. He was clammy and afraid and his eyes seemed frozen in shock. He was still only just taking in what she had said. He was thinking back and piecing together. She had not meant to do it. She had wanted her reunion with her family to be private. She had wanted her union with Gendry to be a long time off. She wanted time to talk with him. She had intended to do it properly. Time, it seemed, they did not have. She had not wanted to blurt it out in front of Daenerys or Jaime or the Hand but the Queen, she saw clearly, would give her no choice. Sansa had not cared for the matter and the Storm Lands were not in the dominion of the North. If he wanted the Baratheon name and seat, it was the Dragon Queen he would have to please. 

Arya turned her gaze to the woman who sat on the Iron Throne. The Targaryen, Mother of Dragons they called her. She was smiling at them, tears in her beautiful violet eyes. The Hand, beside her, looked equally happy although he was smirking instead of smiling. When Jon scooped Rickon into his arms Arya’s heart broke as he introduced the boy to his own sister. Of course he wouldn’t remember her. He had been only just two years when she had ridden off with their father to King’s Landing. He looked frightened to see Jon and Sansa looking so upset but Sansa was laughing then and cooing at the boy and he flashed Arya a small, tight smile that spread warmth through her chest. 

Arya could hear the whispers and cheers among the guards and household who had come to see the commotion as word of who she was spread amongst the crowd. Soon Daenerys was before them, smiling gently and looking much older than Arya had been led to believe she was.

“It is my honor to have been here at your return to Winterfell, Princess Arya. Your sister has spoken of you a great deal and I would be delighted in helping to prepare a celebration feast in honor of your return and your wedding.” She knew, of course, that the Southron Queen was only trying to be helpful but when she chanced a glance at Gendry he looked even more panicked than he had before. Jon, who had not been there when she revealed herself, stiffened. 

“Wedding? What wedding?” 

Arya did not bite her lip, although she wanted to. She turned to weakly smile at Gendry. Ser Jaime clasped him on the shoulder with his good hand and nodded at her to continue. She felt better knowing Ser Jaime was with him, would talk sense to him. 

“I am married.” She had meant to sound less timid, less girlish.

“That’s not possible.” His voice was firm and incredulous. “To who?”

Arya looked behind her and Jon followed her eyes to Gendry. He narrowed his eyes at the blacksmith and Arya saw his fists ball up at his sides. 

“Gendry,” he growled low in his throat. They had been friends once. She had hoped their acquaintance would make this easier on Jon, who had always been very protective of her. Arya positioned herself carefully between Jon and Gendry. She widened her stance for more stability.

“My Lord,” he responded firmly. Arya smirked, he did not quiver or shake for Jon and he had remembered her little lesson on etiquette. She turned her head again and saw that he was flushed, vastly preferable to his previous clamminess. His eyes sparkled in challenge and he strode purposefully up to them and stood behind Arya. 

“Jon,” Sansa interrupted, “Ser Gendry has asked to be legitimized, like you. Isn’t that good?” She sounded like she was trying to calm a wounded animal, and maybe she was because Ghost was piteously whining in a corner of the hall. Nymeria growled and licked at the white wolf but to no avail. 

“And I have no reason to deny him.” Daenerys Targaryen spoke up. Her nephew looked from Daenerys to Sansa and back to Arya before settling his gaze on the man behind her. 

“I am a bastard of Robert Baratheon, my Lord. I intend to hold Storm’s End, if they’ll have me.”

“Us.” Gendry looked down at her amendment and blushed in a rather unmanly manner.

“Us,” he finished more quietly. 

Arya saw some of the tension leech out of Jon’s shoulders and he turned to her very seriously. 

“Is that what you wish?” She did not need to look in his face to feel the nervousness of the man behind her. How could he still believe her not to want him after she proclaimed him to be her husband? Stupid smith. 

“Yes. Of course,” she replied in Braavosi custom. They always said ‘Of course’ as though everyone should have already known. “Why would I do it if I didn’t want to?” And really, he should have known that.

“Then, I guess congratulations are in order little sister.” He smiled widely and wrapped her in his arms again. Arya relished the embrace. Cheers went up around them and in short order she and Gendry were being escorted by Sansa to their own room. They had to prepare for the feast in their honor and as much as she did not want to be parted from her family Sansa insisted both of them have a bath. 

Arya groaned inwardly. What was she going to tell him, how could she possibly explain? She didn’t have long to think about it because Sansa had found them their room and promptly deposited them there. 

He looked at her levelly once the door was closed. 

She broke the silence softly. “You can bathe first, if you like” 

He placed his hands on his hips. “Sure,” he shrugged easily but he didn’t remove his eyes from hers, “right after you tell me how I got married.”

Arya groaned again.


	13. The Children of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch-ch-ch-changes.

The room was warm from the hot spring water that was fed into the cold granite of the walls and floors and it only served to add to the heat flushing Arya’s skin. She was gnawing at her lips, disregarding all that the Kindly Man and the Waif had taught here about tells and lying and not being Arya Stark of Winterfell. At the end, she was the most nervous when being herself and telling the truth. She huffed, frustrated with the silence of the boy, no man, before her. She swatted distractedly at the wisps of hair that had escaped her braid to linger in front of her eyes. 

“…and then you kissed me.” Her finish was somewhat impatient but he wasn’t saying anything so she thought she would skip to the end.

Arya was angry at having to explain to him something that seemed so obvious to her. She had to remind herself several times that he had no knowledge of the old ways and that was the fault of Southron men and customs and Southron Gods and it was no fault of his own. Really though, she thought, he could be aurochs-witted sometimes.

“You kissed me.” He was smirking and she could tell in that moment he was being deliberately difficult. She had expected him to be mad, to feel betrayed or lied to but he just smiled smugly as she explained to him how their kiss before the eyes of the Heart Tree bound them.

She glared at him. “You kissed me back, you stupid. It doesn’t matter who kissed who. You gave me your cloak, you admitted you loved me and we kissed. Order makes no difference to the Old Gods.”

“That’s what I don’t get,” his face scrunched up as he sat on the edge of their bed and rubbed his hands over his face, “there wasn’t a Septon or anything. There were no vows. We were alone.” He actually appeared to take it serious and she saw beneath the smug mask. 

Arya shrugged, she walked to the far wall and began dragging a chair across the floor. She placed it in front of him and leaned forward so she could more easily explain to him, comfortably, what she had already gone through once and he didn’t seem to be getting. “In the North we don’t need that, our ways are the old ways. You have to think of the tree as a Septon. A Septon just represents the Gods, right?” He nodded at her and she continued. “Well, in the North the trees are the Gods and the Gods are the trees. Everything you do before the eyes of a Heart Tree is sacred. Everything. If you polish your sword. If you take that sword and kill a man. If you dig that man a grave, you do it all in the eyes of the Gods. If you kiss a lover, it’s a sacred kiss. If you take a shit, it’s a sacred shit. Understand?”

He laughed a little but his cheeks coloured, as though the Heart Tree actually had eyes and watched them kiss when he had thought they were all alone. “So when I gave you my cloak…”

“It was symbolic. You gave it to me to keep me warm, only it means more than that. It means-”

“It means I’ll keep you warm…for always.”

His eyes were deadly serious and Arya didn’t think it was possible to feel much hotter but she did. Her chest bloomed with blood. She could feel it welling to the surface changing her skin from pale to seared red. Her palms shook and she had to deliberately steady them on her knees before he noticed. 

“I wanted to tell you but,” she struggled with the words, trying to find the right way to explain. “You don’t know the Old Gods. I was afraid you would think it was stupid.”

Gendry frowned and reached out his hand to cup her face. His hands were warm and wide and callused. They reminded her of her father’s hands, she found them comforting. “I didn’t think you were afraid of anything. You’ve always just sort of done as you pleased.”

“Fear cuts deeper than swords.” She smirked, thinking of Syrio. “But only stupid people are not afraid. Someone truly brave may be afraid, but he must master his fear.”

Gendry rubbed a small circle on her cheek, just along the cheekbone, before sliding his hand down along her neck and tilting her head up ever so slightly. Arya watched patiently as Gendry brought his face down to hers and pressed his lips to her mouth for a kiss. She let her eyes slip shut as they met and carelessly parted her lips when his tongue sought entrance. His hand slid further along her neck until it was buried in her hair and the other hand found her waist and tugged Arya forward and out of her chair. 

She ended up awkwardly in his lap, her tongue battling with his as the kiss intensified. His fingers pulled her closer and her knees buckled on either side of his hips as she pressed herself over him, pushing Gendry back on to the bed. 

He landed with a muted “oomph” that she swallowed as she continued to kiss him. Her body burned and she felt sweat prickling at her hairline as she pressed herself against him like a cat, like one of the wanton women of the Happy Port. 

His hands grasped at the back of her dirty tunic, balling it up in his fist as he tugged her ever closer. His hips shook with effort as he pressed himself up to her. His jaw line was scratchy with the growth that had accumulated since the Maester of Moat Cailin shaved him. She took pleasure in the rough scrape of it along her neck as he licked and bit his way across her collarbone. 

She buried her face in his shoulder with pleasure, shivering as his tongue licked at her heated skin. The trail he left behind was cool in the air and she squeezed her eyes shut. One of his hands held her head in place and he kissed below the unlaced collar of her tunic and his other hand greedily grabbed at her ass, squeezing the flesh there and pushing her roughly into him. Soon he was back to kissing her neck and up her chin and she lifted her head to respond by planting kisses behind his ear and along the line of his thick, black hair. With a growl he jerked back and met her eyes. The stormy blue was reduced to a thin ring of colour around the black pupils. Her stomach flipped as he pulled her back down, closing his lips over hers and darting his tongue in and out of her mouth hungrily. 

She rocked her hips over his, delighting in the feel of his hardness against her center and feeling just as powerful as she usually did with a blade in her hands. She moaned into his mouth and the armourer flipped her easily onto her back by rolling over. He was between her legs easily and quickly abandoned her lips to jerk her tunic up and bury his face in her stomach. He was franticly, hungrily kissing across the sensitive skin stretched over her ribs and up higher, higher until he reached the undersides of her breasts. 

Arya’s breath stuck in her throat as he licked the soft flesh he found there. One of his hands slid up with his lips and flicked across the nipple of her left breast. Arya cried out before she could help it. He placed his lips over the tip of her breast and she writhed below him as he flicked back and forth with his tongue before sucking on the bud in earnest. She clawed at Gendry’s back, her nails racking over the fabric of his tunic, not caring whether or not she broke skin as she did. 

Once he was done licking and sucking Arya pulled in a breath, preparing to yell at him and drag him back down to her teat. Instead she squeaked as his stubble covered chin scratched at her abdomen and his strong, callused fingers curled around the top of her breeches and impatiently jerked at them. She lifted her hips to push herself closer to his warm lips, inadvertently helping him to slide her breeches and smallclothes over her bottom and down her legs. He held her hip steady with one hand, face buried in the joint of her hipbones, as his other hand yanked her smallclothes off completely. The air, chillier than her flushed skin, hit the wetness clinging to the curls between her legs and Arya was brought back to herself. She was almost aware long enough to stop him, but soon Gendry’s breath rushing over her thighs warmed her again and she forgot why she would want to stop him. In fact, she was sure she didn’t. 

Arya could hardly think through the haze. She had never been filled with such desperate want as she was then. His tongue delicately, more delicately than she could have imagined him capable, grazed along the center of her folds. She breathed out a hoarse sigh and twisted her fingers in the linens beneath her. He hummed in approval and she could feel the vibrations in her spine. She clenched with a gasp when he blew cool air across her sensitive flesh. He kissed her flower again and again and Arya cried out, twisting her fingers in his hair.

Arya yanked at the hair clasped tight in her fingers and hauled Gendry’s head back up to her own. She pressed her lips tight against his. She was surprised to find the taste of herself lingered on him and spread onto her tongue as he parted his mouth for her. She could feel the hardness he had for pressing impatiently against her center as his lips devoured her and she found herself arching to meet him.

“Is this right?” He said suddenly, stilling above her. Arya’s fingers, of their own accord, had seemed to make it to the leather laces of his breeches. She herself was in naught but a bunched up tunic and as he looked down at her, flushed and black-eyed, Arya felt exposed. 

“Why did you stop?” Her patience was running thin and her body was protesting the weight of him above her. 

“Is this right, my Lady? I know they consider us man and wife. But we’re not, are we?”

Arya huffed. “Do you want to be?”

Gendry looked at her and furrowed his eyebrows. He licked his lips and Arya watched as his eyes flickered over her face.

“I want it more than I should, more than anything.”

Arya couldn’t help the smug smile she knew was pulling at the corners of her mouth. He’d promised never to leave her. He was hers and she would be his. He would be her mate, not her Lord. And he loved her the way his father had loved her Lady mother. She could see it in his eyes. She could see everything in his eyes, because as Syrio always told her, ‘the eyes speak truth.’

“Then we are. I don’t want a ceremony. I hate ceremonies. And if you don’t need one, then we won’t have one. It would just be us standing in front of the tree while all of Winterfell watches.” 

Gendry smirked down at her and she was caught off guard when he gently nuzzled the side of her neck with his nose before thumping his forehead into her collar bone and breathing in deeply and sighing. “You make everything sound so simple, even if it’s not.”

“I don’t see why it can’t be. Never take five steps where one will do Ser.” Arya shrugged and wrapped her arms around his neck, tugging him closer. “Or is it Lord now? Lord Baratheon?”

“What is that you’re always saying m’lady? Don’t call me that.”

Arya growled at him over her and tried to push him off but the weight was too much. “My Lady, stupid.”

He leaned over her and kissed her again, gently. His lips were soft over hers and full of desire. She knew he was still needy and desperate even though they had broken to speak, she could feel him just as hard against her as he had been before. He took more care though as he left hot trails across her body with his fingertips. Arya, tired of taking her time, slipped her hands into his breaches and wrapped her thin fingers around his manhood. Gendry bucked above her and his kisses became more heated, almost frantic against her skin. He thickened in her hand and Arya marveled at the feel of it. She thrilled at the power she was holding, both figuratively and literally. The skin was so soft on his cock, softer than any of the skin elsewhere on his body, or hers for that matter. And it was so warm, even in her heated little hands. 

“Arya!” 

Gendry froze above her and Arya stiffened. Gendry’s shirt was undone and his breeches were unlaced and open. Arya’s eyes flicked down to see the head of his cock peeking out from beneath her knuckles, swollen and red and wet to glistening at the tip. The sight coupled with the feel of his stilled fingers thrust into her made Arya moan regardless of the call at the door.

“Arya, it’s Bran. Are you in there?” 

She sat up, almost knocking her head against Gendry’s. 

“Bran, I’m here!” She scrambled out from underneath him, only to stop short at the door. She looked down at her flushed skin and loose tunic. She was exposed from the upper thigh down and Gendry was frozen with swollen lips and looking as though his clothes had been hastily ripped open. On reflection, that’s exactly what had happened. She flushed in embarrassment at the thought of what her face must look like. 

“Arya! Hodor is with me, and we’ve got your bath water. Let us in!” Bran sounded excited and impatient and hardly like himself. She’d not even recognized his voice. He sounded like a man, she thought. “Arya!”

Quickly she rushed across the room and grabbed her breeches. She hurriedly began to pull them on, hoping on one foot as she steered Gendry across the room to stand behind the thick, carved weirwood screen. 

“Sorry, Gendry was getting ready for his bath. He’s in sore need if you ask me!” She shouted as she gave the blacksmith one last hard shove behind the screen. She deftly laced her breeches closed and adjusted her now tucked in tunic. Arya wound her hair up, securing it with her leather strap, and splashed her face with the water from the bowl beside their bed. She grabbed the linen from the mattress and carelessly dried her face before swinging the door open. 

“Bran!” Her shout was breathy and high-pitched, much to her dismay. 

Bran sat their smiling before her with Summer obediently at his side and Hodor behind him. Arya was surprised to see Hodor again but it was a pleasant surprise. Bran did not stand, she knew he wouldn’t. Somehow Arya had wanted him to. She dropped to her knees before her baby brother. The stone was warm and comforting beneath her.

Bran opened his arms and Arya fell into them gratefully. Bran’s arms were strong and lean, same as they were when he was small. She easily rested her head in his lap. 

“I’ve missed you, we all have.”

“I’m home now,” she mumbled into his legs. She felt him bend at the waist and soon his head was resting on hers. She thought they must look ridiculous, bent over each other in the middle of the corridor. 

“Hodor!” 

Arya couldn’t help it, she laughed. She could feel Bran shaking with laughter above her and when he released her there were tears on both their cheeks. Bran was laughing still. 

“He hasn’t changed much, have you Hodor?” He asked of the lumbering man behind his chair.

“Hodor!” 

Arya laughed again before standing up. She moved aside so the two men moving the wash basin could take it into the room behind her. They quickly did and headed back the way they came as soon as they were finished. While they worked Arya was examining Bran’s chair. It was raised slightly, with handles on the back, and had wheels instead of legs.”

“Bran, your chair, it’s amazing.” Arya knelt again to better examine it. Bran was beaming when she looked back up at him.

“Lord Tyrion and I designed it. I’m a man grown, I can’t have Hodor carrying me around all the time.”

“Lord Tyrion? Tyrion Lannister, the Queen’s Hand?”

He smiled and nodded. “He even drew up the first plan for my saddle. He said he felt sorry for cripples and broken things.”

“Bran, you’re not a cripple!” Arya’s indignation seemed to make Bran laugh.

They were almost eye to eye with her kneeling; he only had to look down slightly to meet her gaze. “I am. Saying I’m not won’t change it.”

Her little brother had grown so much in the almost seven years since she’d seen him, five in Braavos and two in Westeros. She’d so close and yet so far away. That would make him four and ten, only a year younger than her and indeed, a man grown. Sansa and Jon had been easy to recognize but Rickon and Bran, she blinked back furious tears, they were so changed Arya hardly knew them. 

“You’ve grown.” She managed to get the words out without choking on them and Arya took it for a start. She firmly stood up and put a smile on for her little brother. 

“As have you, and married. I thought Jon was lying when he told me.”

“Our brother never was much of a liar.”

“Cousin Arya. The smallfolk are confused enough as it is.” He was giggling but Arya was confused. 

“Cousin? But, Sansa said Jon was legitimized, that wouldn’t change his being our brother.” Bran looked confused too for a minute before it dawned on him. 

“You don’t know.” Her little brother was always a better liar than Jon but even Bran had tells and his eyes, instead of shifting to the ground for even a second, stayed firmly focused on her face. “Jon was never our brother. He was Aunt Lyanna’s son.”

“With Robert Baratheon?” The silence in the hall after her question was palpable. “Bran, was it Robert?”

He shook his head.

“It was Rhaegar Targaryen. Aunt Lyanna was abducted, she went willingly. She-Ser Barristan says she loved him.”

“Jon, a Targaryen?” Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest.

“Yes, but the smallfolk can’t seem to get it straight, especially north of the Neck. I thought you knew.”

“He called me sister.” The shock was not wearing off as she stared dumbfounded at her brother. 

“You’ve been his sister for as long as you lived, he missed you as a brother misses a sister. He is a Targaryen though, second in line to the Iron Throne.” 

“Arya?” 

She turned to the door and Gendry stood there in his clothes, he looked much more put together although still dirty. He had waited to bathe, clearly. 

“Gendry, this is my little brother Bran.” 

Gendry smiled warmly and bowed slightly. “My Lord,” he said clearly.

Bran smiled too and dipped his head slightly. “Good brother, it is a pleasure to meet you finally. I’ve heard Jon speak of you before, as Arya’s friend during the War of Five Kings.”

Arya watched the exchange somewhat recovered. It warmed her to hear that Jon had spoken of her and of Gendry, in her absence. 

“I will let you two bathe, he’s not the only one who needs it.” Bran scrunched up his face in displeasure and Gendry furrowed his brow as she laughed at her little brother’s jape. “Come Hodor, let’s go find Meera and Sansa.” With that her brother was wheeled off and she was left again with Gendry. 

Nervousness set in where desire had been. They turned in tandem to return to their room and nearly tripped over each other. Gendry, being the noble knight he was, let her walk through first. Once he had the door closed Gendry stood awkwardly in front of it, obviously not knowing what to do. 

“You can go first, I don’t want the water to get cold,” he said softly, with his eyes downcast. It was amazing how quickly the smith had gone from lustful confident lover to shy maid. 

Arya tried to contain the meaning of her words as she turned towards the bags that had been brought up before her and Gendry had been taken to their room. “We can just bathe together. Then the water won’t get cold.” She shrugged easily, hoping he would agree easily.

“Are you sure that we-” He was staring at her like she was the first meal he’d seen in months. Years even. 

“Why not?” She had to cut him off before he could come up with and excuse. Arya decided to pull bring out her dragon. In Cyvasse the strongest piece on the board is your dragon and usually you want to hold him back until late in the game. Thankfully, Arya was a much better Cyvasse player than Gendry. 

She easily reached down and tugged her tunic out of her breaches, pulling it over her head and tossing it to the floor. With her body exposed from the waist up she blushed but was determined to finish what she started. Quickly and steadily she unlaced her breeches and slid them to the floor in one motion. She was completely uncovered when she reached the edge of the steaming copper basin full of water. It splashed slightly as she put in the left foot and then her right. She dared a glance at Gendry before she settled herself. His jaw was slack and his eyes were fixed to her, roaming up and down her body. 

“The water will cool if you don’t hurry.” 

He was then a flurry of motion. Gendry first tore his tunic over his head and angrily finished toeing off his boots when his breeches got stuck on them, almost causing him to trip. Arya almost laughed but couldn’t manage it as she caught a glimpse of his exposed manhood. It bobbed before him, red and thick. She recalled the soft feel of the flesh in her palm and shivered. He was at the edge of the basin in moments. Suddenly shy again he just stood there, waiting for what she couldn’t say. She, however, would not wait. Arya placed her hands on his shoulders, leading him into the tub. He stepped over the rim easy enough and she pressed him downward, until he was sitting before her. Arya faced him and took a deep breath, placing her feet on either side of him. 

She looked down, into his eyes, as she knelt over him. Carefully reaching into the warm water she found his cock with her fingers and he gasped at the touch. Arya positioned herself over him and before he could say a word in protest, lowered herself onto him gently. She met resistance at first and slowed, hesitating at the pain. She refused to let some small pain stop her though and very soon sunk herself further until she was fully seated on him. 

Gendry’s head was thrown back over the edge of the tub, water droplets clinging to his neck. His fingers had gone to her waist and where tightly holding her to him. She knew in some far off, unaffected, part of her mind that there would be bruising later from the pressure of his fingertips but she didn’t care. 

She was sitting there, not moving, with her eyes closed. She didn’t know when they slipped shut but they had and she had let her head tip back on her shoulders. She was only brought back when Gendry said here name.

“Arya,” he whimpered, as if he were in pain. She pulled her head back and opened her eyes. He was watching her, his eyes black with lust beneath his lashes, and he impatiently shifted beneath her. “Can-can you move?” 

She recovered her senses and unsteadily lifted herself up before lowering herself again, swiftly. Gendry bucked beneath her as she moved and knocked against something that made Arya shudder. She repeated the motion with help from his hands on her waist, rocking her up and then down on top of him, to the same effect. 

To her surprise her body seemed to know what to do better than she did, regardless of what she had seen in Izembaro’s house and the Happy Port. Soon her pace was set and she was franticly grinding herself against Gendry over and over again, dragging herself up and then letting him drag her back down. Soon his hands found her breasts and his fingers roughly squeezed and fondled the flesh their as she furiously moved over him. He pinched her nipple in his right hand and she cried out, arching her back and thrusting her chest closer to him.

Gendry took the opportunity to take her other breast into his mouth and sucked at it soundly, rolling the nub he found there between his teeth. As she moaned and sighed he gripped her hips again and began to move her in a circular pattern while she bounced and he thrust into her. The new sensation made Arya dig her fingernails into his broad shoulders, the water splashing over them made it hard for her to keep her grip on him. ‘

His lips came away from her breast and his eyes opened. She watched him watch the bounce of her breasts before his eyes and suddenly, as she watched his face, she began to convulse. Her head flung back and she cried out as heat rushed like a torrent throughout her body. She squeezed him between her thighs, erratically bucking in his arms as she came. He growled into her ear when her arms wrapped around him, pulling him tightly against her and pushing her head into his shoulder. Gendry sped the pace sped up briefly before she felt the flood of his seed inside her, causing her to convulse again before she could come down and forcing a groan from her mouth. 

He was breathing heavily when she leaned back, a satisfied smirk stretching across her face. Arya bent down to kiss him and his lips and tongue were cold from effort. Slowly she lifted herself up and off his softening cock. When she fell back between his legs Gendry met her eyes and reached out a hand to cup the side of her face. 

“I-I love you.” His face was so open that Arya blushed for him. She grabbed the bar of soap off the floor and began to scrub at herself, startled slightly at the pink water. Her maidenhead had broken. She looked at the man who took it and smirked. 

“I know, stupid, it’s the cleverest thing you’ve ever done.” He narrowed his eyes at her and opened his mouth to respond but she cut him off with a quick, closed mouth kiss. She couldn’t hold back the laugh that bubbled up in her when she pulled her face back. “I love you too.”


	14. A Wedding Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing.

Nymeria had begun scratching at the ancient wood of their door somewhere between actual washing and drying off and by the time Arya was out of the basin was curled up on the bed lazily watching. Once the couple had acquired fresh water, the pair returned to washing in earnest but the excitement of their first lovemaking left the pair exhausted and a bit giddy. The two wrestled and kissed, delighting in their newfound freedom to explore each other and only slowed when Sansa’s cupbearer was sent to check on their progress and to inquire about Nymeria’s whereabouts. Arya, who was unused to the affection, felt almost relieved to be interrupted. 

Once out of the water the two set to dressing sluggishly. Or more accurately, Gendry set to dressing and Arya to sulking. She grumbled at the sight of the dress brought around for her and its myriad trappings. She’d been accustomed to not only dressing herself but also a certain style of dress that Sansa did not appear to tolerate. Gendry seemed content to fit into his own clothes with only a borrowed tunic that more fit the occasion, a gift from Ser Jaime. The fabric was silky and black with golden panels. 

Jaime had apologized that it lacked the stag of Gendry’s new house but Gendry said he preferred that. He felt almost an imposter wearing the Stag of House Baratheon, she could tell by his downcast eyes and the set of his mouth. He had not wanted to be legitimized in the first place and had only done so for her, for them. Still, she felt like he deserved it as she watched him tie the tunic at the sides. She’d always been aware of the class distinctions, though she rarely abided by them. Her friends were never Lords or Ladies. She knew butcher’s sons and sword masters daughters. She had loved armourers, assassins, instructors and whores. As a woman grown she understood that Lords and Ladies were not the betters of a society, not by birth. The distinctions were born rather because at some point they had to be and at the time those were the men most capable. This had always made her uncomfortable because as a child she saw no difference between the rich and the poor besides a certain despair that came with want. Instead, the sons of those capable men retained the authority because it as easier to do it that way and sometimes they were honorable, good men, like her father. Other times, they were like Prince Joffrey. Gendry was easily one of the only good men she knew in a realm full of horrid men who committed horrid atrocities with no more right then some ancient decision made by the first men. He was no better than a king’s bastard by birth but he would make a fine Lord. 

Gendry was fully dressed when he brought Arya to attention. She’d been distracted by her own thoughts, frozen in her undergarments, bunching the beautiful fabric of her dress in her hands. “My Lady,” he said, “I would consider it a kindness if you would put on the dress you’re twisting.” 

Arya looked at him and frowned. “I hate this dress and I hate being the center of attention.” She sighed, knowing it sounded petulant. “I don’t want to be the center of attention. I’m not good at being a lady.”

He laughed. “No, you’re not, but your sister will drag you down I think. If you don’t go willingly that is. Now, I wouldn’t want to make us late for our own feast but I will do if you do not cover yourself.” He sternly looked her up and down before spinning on his heel and facing out their small window. “Quickly.” 

His gaze had been directly on her face as he spoke but she saw them flick once or twice to her body and she had to hide her smirk. It was a type of control Arya was unused to feeling and it made her blood strum. She hadn’t expected it but she couldn’t deny that it felt good, knowing that she made his body respond by simply standing there. He was right, however, they shouldn’t be late or Sansa would stomp upstairs like when they had been children and tow her down. With a resigned sigh she ordered him to help her tighten the stays that fit in her corset. He did so obediently, if a little shakily. She’d waved off the hand maiden who had brought the dress but she struggled with the skirts and had to enlist the help of Gendry twice more before she was fully clothed. 

After all that she’d almost called a hand maiden back when he pointed out her hair, asking if she wanted that leather tie he had of hers to tie it back. She was comfortable having it in a haphazard braid down her neck, ending at her shoulders, but she didn’t know if that was appropriate this night. The last time she’d had anything else done with it though was at Moat Cailin, that first night, and before that she could hardly remember. Maybe in the last days before she left King’s Landing? Or possible the Brotherhood’s stay at Acorn Hall? She couldn’t remember how her hair looked, only that ridiculous dress and that it was the first time she had been properly clean since the day her father was killed. At Moat Cailin she’d done it in a simple knot behind her head. It was a customary hair style in Braavos, although more oft worn by Bravos than ladies, and it helped that she was used to making it. She was almost as familiar with it as she was with her braid. Unfortunately this was a wedding feast, for her no less, and under the roof of her childhood home. It felt somehow disrespectful. She laughed at absurdity of it, her feeling disrespectful. 

Gendry was going through their things, trying to put the clothing and knives and dragon glass in something that resembled order while she just stared at the looking glass in their room as though it held the answers. Her own reflection looked odd to her. Her skin was flushed and her eyes, which were normally the color of cold steel, were a warm grey that they had never been before. A girl from the Happy Port once told her that her eyes were like chips of ice. Even her hair shone glossier in the sconce-light. It was as though she’d changed somehow, from only the day before. She knew the magic of the Faceless men and had changed her face many times but the sensation felt wholly new. She’d been a pretty girl, a whore, a beggar, and a bravo. Arya had been Beth and Micah, an assassin and a fish monger. Who she hadn’t been in so long, was Arya. Her reflection, happier than she remembered being even before she left for King’s Landing with her father, reminded her more of her mother than any version of herself that she could recall. With a flash of inspiration she begged Gendry to take the small looking glass and hold it behind her head so she could see. He raised an eyebrow but did as she asked and didn’t argue when she chastised him for not holding it steady. When she was satisfied she allowed Gendry to escort her from their room.

When they were announced for dinner that evening the cheers were loud and long. Gendry was awkward and uncomfortable with all the well wishers but was appropriately polite if a little stony faced. In his finery his resemblance to Renly and Robert was unmistakable. Arya marveled once again at how she had traveled with him so long and failed to notice the similarities. Gendry’s height and hair and eyes, the shape of the jaw and his preference for the hammer were all like Robert Baratheon. It seemed every inch of him called recollections back to her mind. True, Gendry was a smith and had a respect for his hammer that she doubted Robert ever had and in nature Gendry was vastly more serious. Still, Arya shivered thinking of the way he growled when he entered her. She wondered if Robert had been that way with her Aunt Lyanna, or with Cersei. 

Arya too collected her own admiring compliments and she smiled for Sansa’s guests but she refused to curtsy and bow and simper the way her sister used to. For her sister and Sansa’s soon to be husband’s part, they didn’t seem to care. Nor did the Dragon Queen and her escorts chide Arya’s lack of pleasantries. As she ascended the few steps up the dais that the head table sat on she was reminded of the feast they had in that very hall for King Robert’s retinue. That night she had flung potatoes at Sansa while her sister ogled that awful Prince Joffrey and her mother made Robb carry her to bed. Robb who would never eat in this hall again, she thought. That night she’d snuck out and watched Jon practice in the yard before slipping into the kitchens for lemon cakes. She’d run into a very drunk King Robert and a wench she knew from the kitchens. He’d called her pretty and told the wench that one day Arya would be just like her Aunt, like his Lyanna. She’d laughed and called him a liar before grabbing a pasty and moving along. 

Now the hall was once again filled but her seat was that of honored guest, where Cersei Baratheon nee Lannister had sat and beside her was Gendry Baratheon not King Robert. She wondered if this would have happened had her Aunt married Robert. Would the war have happened at all? Would Rhaegar be King and Sansa have married little Prince Aegon? Would Arya be betrothed or married to Robert’s son, the heir of the Stormlands and Storm’s End, and would that boy be like Gendry? 

Her dress was less opulent then any that she’d seen the former Queen in, it was grey silk with black thread embroidered on the cuffs, the neckline was thick with vines. Sansa and the Queen Daenerys looked rather less lavish then Arya remembered Cersei looking as well. Daenerys wore a simple white dress in the style of the free cities. It was belted with leather and gold bands and wrapped around her so that it followed her on the ground and a shawl of thick fur covered her shoulders. Sansa was in a dress of periwinkle silk edged in grey fur at the cuffs of the large, bell-like sleeves and around the high collar. Cersei had always been dripping with jewels and golden threads, her dresses often brightly colored and belted with chains or woven belts of copper, silver, and gold. She had loved being Queen and Arya had to admit that Cersei had looked the part. 

Once everyone was seated and toasts were had Sansa gave a small speech about family, loyalty and the North. She was regal and firm, her voice cool like the winds of winter. Arya had heard many speeches like it, from the mouth of her father. Soon her sister was finished and the merriment begun. The food was brought out and served and the glasses were filled and Arya relaxed into her seat. Not long after they begun eating Arya felt Sansa’s hand firmly grip her fingers beneath the table. 

“Your hair,” her sister said, “its mother’s?” 

Sansa spoke as though it were a question, even though she knew Sansa obviously recognized it. Arya had tied the parts at the crown of her head into braids and wove them easily at the back of her head. She’d seen her mother and her mother’s hand maidens do it so often as a child it was as though she already knew how to do it herself. She smiled at the memory of sitting cross-legged beside her mother as she nursed Rickon, her hand maids carefully braiding her hair and knotting the back of her dress.

“I didn’t know how to do anything else,” she answered honestly.

Sansa nodded and laughed, fingering a strand of hair that had fallen into Arya’s eyes. “Why am I not surprised?” She tucked the strand behind Arya’s ear and settled back into her high-backed seat. “It looks good, will you do it again?”

Arya smirked at the question. “Not likely, no.”

Sansa laughed again, louder this time. “Maybe for my wedding?” Arya rolled her eyes but agreed not to tie her hair up with a piece of old, dirty leather.

Soon there was singing and dancing and more desserts than Arya could stomach. Rickon was a bit in his cups and began complaining about how the night dragged on. Jon took him to his room after Rickon started to pester the Hound about his scars, similar to Robb’s tucking in of Arya. When Jon returned from his errand he immediately went back to Bran with whom he’d been discussing the construction happening at the Wall. Meanwhile Arya chatted about the exact mechanisms of Bran’s chair with Tyrion Lannister, the Queen’s new Hand. He was witty and sly, although she thought, ill humored. Still, she liked his humor, and his open honesty. Jaime had introduced the two not long after her and Gendry sat down. 

“Bran told me you had a, “fondness for broken things,” as he put it.”

“As a broken thing myself I feel it only right, my Lady. And Bran of course, he is a special case.”

“Why?”

“He was my good-brother for a time, as you were my good-sister.”

“You mean your marriage to Sansa? Jaime told me about that.”

“Did he? Well, she was very good to me in the time we shared, ever polite and stoic. I would be lying if I said I didn’t think she had it in her to outlast all of them. I’m gratified to see I was correct. What I didn’t expect was that it seems she too has a fondness for broken things.” With this he gestured toward her sister and the Hound.

Arya nodded. “I was under the impression you drew up the plans while you were with Jon at the Wall.”

“For his saddle yes, I did. Not for his chair, that was a later date. I felt sorry for your brother then, now I know better. He didn’t need my pity which is good because I do lack very much of it. I have little to offer to others but my mind, and I was more than willing to expend some of that for your brother’s sake.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure, I assure you, little wolf.” He smiled at her lopsidedly. “You don’t mind do you? I think the name remarkably apt and I’ve gotten used to my brother referring to you that way.” Arya shook her head. “You have, of course, blossomed into a remarkably good looking girl. I would say the very image of my late sister’s late husband’s would-be-lover.” 

“You mean my Aunt Lyanna Jaime, er, Ser Jaime said something similar.”

“It’s no wonder our young Lord of Storm’s End chose you for his Lady, my Lady.”

Arya cocked her head and tried to puzzle out her small conversation companion. “Thank you, I think.”

“You’re very welcome.” He drank deeply from his goblet before setting his mismatched eyes on her again. “Now, I must go and examine this wench my brother is so taken with. I’ve only ever seen the Beauty Brienne from afar. It’s very exciting. She has quite the reputation and against my brother’s better judgment, or so he thinks, he seems rather attached to her.”

“I like her.” 

Tyrion smirked at her from over his mug if mead. “Yes, well you would wouldn’t you? All armor and chivalry.” He stood then and waddled away from his seat between the Queen and Arya, heading towards Gendry’s other side where Jaime and Brienne sat. 

Arya examined the two brothers interacting. Their relationship reminded her of her brothers. Although Jaime had been the glowing, golden Lion of House Lannister he was no longer so perfect. His gloved hand sat stiffly on the table between his mug and his plate. He had a scar that ran the length of his collar bone and his hair was shorter and darker than she remembered it being although she was used to it now. And the Imp, he had changed so much she hardly recognized him when they’d been introduced. Half of his face was scarred, similar to Hounds but it was cleaner. It looked as though someone had carved out a piece of his nose. His hair too was shorter and darker than she remembered it being and although he waddled quickly she thought it was more pronounced than it used to be. He was laughing raucously at something Jaime had said and the Lady Brienne was blushing a furious shade of burgundy, like a Dornish red. 

Arya turned her attention to the other side of her table since Gendry was still talking with Brienne and the two remaining Lannisters. She specifically examined the Hound carefully. At first she saw little difference. He was still silent and menacing, still a mass of muscle and flesh regardless of the velvet of his doublet. His face was still gnarled and full of burn scars. He’d even acquired a new scar, a long gash hardened through his right eyebrow. He was in the colors of his house, yellow and black, and her mind swung to Gendry. He was positively kingly in his gold and black tunic, his shaggy hair almost covering his dark blue eyes. His face was lit up with an awkward half smile courtesy of Tyrion Lannister. So different from the Hound but she thought, no more affectionate. She felt Gendry’s long fingers graze her back occasionally as she ate and drank, met his eyes from underneath her lashes and blushed when he held her thigh. All of the things that she equated with the loving affection of her parents she also saw in her sister and her betrothed. He was significantly older and was as far from handsome as Arya could imagine yet her sister glowed beneath his gaze and Arya noticed how often the Hound watched Sansa. How carefully he touched her and served her food and kept her glass filled. He was everything chivalrous and gentle if not the handsome and ever smiling knights of Highgarden that Sansa used to fawn over.

Soon Jon rose from his seat between Sansa and the Dragon Queen and sought out Arya, who had returned to her meal. She eked out a gasp when he pulled her into a hug so tightly she thought the laces of her dress would snap. Arya urged him to loosen his grip but he’d buried her face in his shoulder so her pleas were muffled by mouthfuls of his shirt. She was almost desperate enough to poke him with the blade she had hidden in the fold of her skirt but he abruptly released her and patted her head playfully. 

“Arya, I never thought I’d see this day. I’ve only just found you and now I’m losing you all over again.”

“You’re not losing me, I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered furiously. “Gendry promised.”

“Did he?” Jon smiled and looked to her side where Gendry was furiously trying to dissuade Tyrion and Jaime from speculating about his ‘prowess’ by threatening them. Normally a threat from anyone as strong and solid as Gendry would be frightening but Jaime knew him too well and Tyrion read men to easily to be fooled by false bravado. At least Brienne looked suitably angry as well. “Arya Underfoot, it’s not about going to Storm’s End, even though you will. He is the warden of the Stormlands under Queen Daenerys and that is his seat now, as it is yours. I thought you would always be my little sister. Now, you’re a woman grown with a husband and…your lady mother would approve.”

Arya scowled. “That’s not why I did it.”

“I know,” Jon sighed, “I came here expecting to give Sansa to the Hound only to see you in the arms of some young lordling.”

“Gendry’s not like that, he’s not a soft little lordling, not like Joffrey or Tommen or Ned Dayne. He’s strong Jon, and good like father was. He’s not like Robert.” Gendry helpfully illustrated this point by moodily taking a draught from his tankard. Jaime and Tyrion laughing like imps beside him.

“I know he’s strong, sister, I fought beside him. I don’t care how noble or strong or brave he is. I don’t care if he can best you in a fight-”

“He can’t,” Arya interjected although Jon ignored her.

“I don’t even care if he’s loyal to the Queen. I only care that he is loyal to you.”

“He is.” Jon nodded solemnly. “He had better be.” He made her promise the second dance to him since the first would have to be Gendry’s and she agreed easily. He then clapped Gendry on the back, distracting the young man from the ribald antics of his companions, and told him he was a good man. Then he smiled and leaned in close and whispered softly into Gendry’s ear. 

“If I think you are not a good husband, Ghost will rip out your entrails and eat them while you watch. The last thing you see will be your blood dripping from his muzzle and your flesh hanging from between his teeth.”

Arya laughed and shoved Jon away but Gendry looked pale. He did recover soon enough after a visit from Meera and her younger brother Bran, who assured Gendry he had the utmost faith in him. Bran then proceeded to converse with Tyrion and Jon a sight Arya found fascinating. She moved her eyes from the head table and watched the crowd. Drunken feasting and laughter and spirited arguments flowed into her senses and filled her mind. Jaime had moved from the table to speak with Ser Balman and Ser Alyn. The rest of the host that had been staying with the Karstark’s was also there. She saw Ser Sandy and Ser Dennys bothering the new Lord of Barrowtown, their good-brother Lord Calvin. Lady Britta and her husband were in deep conversation with the Mormont sisters. She also saw Troilus and Aabed animatedly speaking with several other travelers at the far side of the hall, they seemed to be acting out some sort of epic battle. Lady Beth had come up and formally given her congratulations, having been told of the feast upon her arrival with Arthor that morning. She was “honored” they felt the tree at Moat Cailin suitable for their rite. Arya warmly thanked her, she liked Beth and she owed Jory to treat her properly besides. 

Very soon the food was mostly picked apart and with to raucous applause and shouts Arya and Gendry shared the first dance. Carefully and somewhat awkwardly they twirled, neither of them quite sure of what they were supposed to be doing. Soon enough had a sort of careless stride and Arya relaxed into his arms, more people stood to dance and some of the tables were shifted to make room. Gendry’s cheeks were warm from mead or whatever wine he had been drinking his arms around her waist reminded her of their time together. Arya tried to ignore her body and focus on her feet as she moved across the floor but the heat in her belly would not abate. She was grateful when the first dance ended and Jon moved between her and Gendry. In Arya’s place Gendry danced with the Dragon Queen. He looked horrified and stiffened up beneath her touch but Daenerys only smiled and lead him across the stony floor. 

“You look well together sister.”

“Are you not supposed to call me ‘cousin,’ brother?”

Jon laughed into her hair. “I prefer ‘sister.’ It’s better than wife, you were to be my wife. Did Sansa tell you?”

“Why? I could have been dead.”

“No one knew where you were or what happened to you. There were lies and letters from Sansa that Cersei wrote but no one knew anything. When Gendry and Brienne reached the Gift and he realized who I was and told me what happened with the Brotherhood I thought you were dead. The Queen and I…” He trailed off and Arya shifted uncomfortably. “When the Hound admitted to Sansa he had taken you and had intended to return you to your mother the day of the wedding she immediately sent ravens to Bran and I. He said you left him in the Saltpans, near death. The Queen,” he nodded again to Daenerys, “very much admires you. You remind her of herself I think.”

“I’m nothing like her.”

“Arya!” Jon’s harsh whisper was desperate sounding.

“What?”

“That is your Queen now Arya.” 

“Yes. And this is the Great Hall and look Jon, we’re dancing!”

He frowned before continuing. “The day her father was killed by that man over there, who she has forgiven, she fled King’s Landing. The day your lord father, Eddard Stark, was beheaded by that same man’s son, you fled King’s Landing with a group of murderers and rapists headed for the Wall.”

“The Lannisters have paid there debt. They always do.”

“It’s not about the Lannisters. You’re the same as her. Westeros is calling them the Beast Queens but Sansa is cold, as cold as winter. Not Daenerys, she burns as hot as Dragon fire. And not you, you’re more Direwolf than Sansa.” 

The music changed pace and Daenerys was before her, relinquishing Gendry and taking Jon from her arms. She nodded and fluttered her eyelashes over purple eyes that made Arya’s stomach twist strangely. Daenerys was powerful and Arya watched Jon easily wrap himself around her. She felt dangerous to Arya, who wondered if her father felt the same way about Aerys Targaryan. 

Gendry slipped his hand into hers and led her back to their seats without her having to ask. Once the were far enough away from the lutes and harps to hear each other Arya leaned up to Gendry’s ear to ask how his dance with Queen Daenerys went. 

“It was like dancing with you, only, taller.” Arya rolled her eyes. “And-I-it wasn’t you, so, I didn’t like it.” His speech was slightly slurred and she rolled her eyes again at his nervous stammer. Arya tugged at his sleeve so he would lean down closer to her. When he did she easily convinced him to sneak away from the feast. She convinced him no one would notice they were missing even though she knew they would but she would deal with it in the morning.


	15. Lady in Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets a King.

In the days following Arya and Gendry’s wedding feast people continued to pour into Winterfell and Winter Town. The inn was full and many of the rooms in Winterfell were full as well with representatives from all seven of the Kingdoms and even Aeron Greyjoy, the Queen’s Warden of Pyke and the Iron Islands along with his niece Asha. She was said to be next in line for the Sea Salt Throne along with her husband from Lordsport, a man named Botley. There were even makeshift cots in many of the rooms to house smaller parties together. Arya looked forward to the feast that would follow the ceremony if only for the chance to see who was left after the war with the Others.

The winds blew fast and cool through the Godswood but Arya hardly shivered. She was wrapped in thick grey furs from her neck down to the fur-lined leather boots she wore beneath her yellow silk gown. Sansa had insisted Arya wear the gown to represent her alliance with house Baratheon. Arya hadn’t even thought about her stupid dress. Instead she’d been wondering who would declare her sister a Clegane. She’d been halfway through her second fitting when it occurred to her that Maester Luwin was long dead, Jon told her he had been killed by the betrayer Theon during his foolish occupation of Winterfell. She’s been furious when she found out of Theon’s betrayal of her Brother but Jon had told her to instead feel sorry for him. When he’d told her of the bastard of Bolton and what he’s done to Theon and to Jeyne Poole she almost pitied him, almost. Arya put it from her mind but as she stood beside her sister and brothers, she was reminded of Luwin again by the stammering Maester that stood before them. People were about to enter the Godswood to witness her sister, the new Queen in the North, be married to Sandor Clegane and the Maester who was supposed to marry them was frantically begging Jon to reconsider. 

He was a large, doughy man in black robes with a long, multi-coloured, chain of links wrapped around his soft form. The chain and the robes were absolutely the only thing he had in common with Winterfell’s old Maester. Arya smirked as she watched a bead of sweat fall from his hairline, down his thick cheek, and disappear into the collar of his wool robes. 

“But Jon, Jon what if I mess up. He might be angry, you don’t think he would…what if he’s angry?” whispered the portly man urgently to her cousin. Arya knew he had to be at least Jon’s age but the man’s face was round and child-like. She wondered at how someone who looked so green had managed to get all of his links, especially the one that looked to be Valyrian steel. 

“Sandor won’t hurt you. He just wants to marry Sansa, Sam. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Remember the White Walkers? How could you let some little thing, like my sister’s wedding, scare you?”

“It’s not the wedding that scares me, it’s the Hound.”

“Don’t call him that. You wouldn’t want him to call you names, would you Sam? Besides, I don’t think he’ll kill you for making a mistake as long as he’s got a new wife by the end of it.”

Arya could have sworn she saw Sam shiver at the words. It certainly couldn’t be the cold he was shivering from, the Maester was wrapped in so many furs she was surprised he could breathe at all and as far as she knew he had been on the wall so he should be used to it. Soon enough though Jon had the new Maester in hand and it was just in time too. The Hound came striding into the Godswood not two seconds later and stood gruffly on the other side of the Maester. Bran and Jon both greeted him and Rickon, who was holding Arya’s hand, smiled shyly from behind her. Arya only grinned. She never thought she would be glad to see his mangled face again but after hearing the stories of how he rescued her sister from the Vale and returned her to Winterfell she couldn’t help but grin at him. It was as if they were friends. When he grinned back she supposed they were.

Once the Hound was in place the guests began to arrive in the Godswood and Jon walked to the entrance so he could walk Sansa to tree and offer her to Sandor. He was a trusted advisor to the Sothron Queen and technically the oldest member of the family even though he name was Targaryan according to his legitimacy. The guests gathered in a small semi-circle around the hot spring, a thick steam was rolling over the surface like a blanket wand and spreading along the ground, warming the clearing somewhat and adding to the mystic feeling of the Godswood. They left room for Sansa to enter however, allowing her to make her way directly to her family and her betrothed at the base of Winterfell’s Heart Tree. 

Gendry leaned over to whisper in her ear as they waited for the guests to finish arriving, “this place makes me feel like an outsider more than anywhere else in the North.”

“Well, you are, aren’t you?” she whispered back with a smile. 

“The trees know you now, Gendry Baratheon. They see you even if you don’t recognize them.” Bran’s voice reminded Arya of her father. She chanced a glance at Gendry who was looking at her little brother with that look on his face, the incredibly pained look he had when he was puzzling something out. “The Old Gods are yours now, whether you will it or not. They chose you.”

“For what?” He said to Bran as quietly, reverently, as he could. Arya scanned the Godswood but Sansa hadn’t entered yet. She turned back to hear Bran’s answer, he looked thoughtful for a moment before breaking into a smile.

“For Arya.”

She blushed under Gendry’s gaze and turned her head away to hide her face, and her small smile.

Not everyone that was invited for the wedding feast, some 500 Lords and Ladies, would be present in the Godswood for the exchanging of cloaks. The Godswood was just too small and the ceremony was being done in the old way, as Arya’s had been, there was no reason to have guests there that would not understand or appreciate it. The list of guests they did include was smallish in comparison to the Northern weddings of the past and included mostly Northern families who kept to the old ways. Arya recognized Beth and Arthor Karstark and the Mormonts of Bear Island easily enough. Sansa had told her that the remains of Houses Ryswell, Flint, Manderly, Glover, and Tallheart would be there as well. She recognized and nodded a greeting to Ned Dayne from Starfall and his new wife, who were one of the exceptions to the guest list. Being Dornish they were unfamiliar with the ceremony but Ned had been one of the Leaders working with Jon during the Long Night and had been a squire in Westeroes during the War of Kings when Arya had first met him. Brienne and Jaime were their representing Tarth and as honored guests for returning Arya to her ancestral home. Harry “The Heir,” who ruled the Vale after Petyr Baelish was assassinated, was also there with his black-haired bride from the Vale. She was constantly smiling and Arya noticed Sansa brighten when she caught sight of her and give a little wave. The two had, apparently, worked with Sandor to release Sansa and were instrumental in the plot to bring down Littlefinger. Of course, the Dragon Queen was there with her Retinue, which included Tyrion Lannister and Edric Storm, who looked to Arya like a slighter version of Gendry. Arya had time to speak with Tyrion at length in the days between her wedding feast and Sansa’s wedding. He was quite good friends with Jon and thus was becoming good friends with Gendry as well. He tested them and educated them, albeit slyly. He reminded her so much of Tywin Lannister she has been uncomfortable at first but afore long they were discussing history and politics as easily as she had with his father. He caught her eye and nodded as he took his place beside the Dragon Queen. 

When Sansa entered the Godswood there was absolute silence. She looked beautiful, her long auburn hair was in beautiful, simple, Northern braids wrapped up on her head. Arya was shocked to see that over Sansa’s slate grey dress she wore across her shoulders a bright red cloak with beautiful gold stitches twirling around the edges. Tyrion had moved forward and stood at the front, beside Sansa. Arya watched in rapt attention as Sansa knelt down and Tyrion slipped the cloak, with the golden lion of Lannister embroidered on the back, from her shoulders. She even leaned forward and brushed a soft kiss across his brow once he’d removed it completely. He smiled and placed a kiss across her knuckles, “It has been a pleasure, my Lady.” Then Jon stepped in and wrapped Sansa in the large, grey, fur-lined cloak of House Stark. The wolf on the back was pure white like Ghost and had black, dragon glass eyes stitched in. Jon said it was remade for the wedding seeing as the original cloak had been burned during the war. 

Samwell nodded to him and addressed Jon as the Stark representative. He asked if Sansa was accepted into House Stark and Jon replied that she was. Then the Hound stepped forward and gruffly asked for Sansa to be his wife. 

Sandor was brusque and so quiet she was sure almost no one else heard even in the utter silence of the Godswood except herself, Sansa, Samwell, and her brothers. Sansa accepted, sounding shy and happy. She was the color of bright pink Achilleas, a flower that littered the coastlines of Braavos and the Faceless men used them often in potions and poultices. 

Sandor was then handed a large cloak by a man Ayra didn’t recognize, perhaps a squire from House Clegane. It was heavy and yellow with a thick, black fur-lining. It was decorated with three black dogs in silk and lined with more black fur. It was the perfect length for Sansa and Sandor swung it around her shoulders easily. He clasped it at the base of her neck with a gold, dog-shaped clasp, the ring fit easily into the jaws of the dog. There was a moment of silence and then a burst of applause. 

Then he kissed her, so gently, tipping her head carefully as their lips met. The applause grew louder when Sansa and the Hound broke their kiss and walked briskly between the guests, the steam from the hot spring swirling around their ankles as they moved. The Queen, along with Edric, Jon and Tyrion followed the pair before it was her turn to leave the Godswood. 

The hall was full to brimming with light and food and guests when they arrived. Arya, Gendry, her family and the Queen and her retinue all sat at the high table with Sansa and her new King in the North. There was music playing when they entered and cheers coming from all corners of the room. Sansa was positively glowing, she was glowing in a way Arya hadn’t seen since before they left for King’s Landing years ago. She looked as she had when she’d first been introduced to Joffrey, before Sansa had seen how cruel the world could be-before she’d grown cold in the Vale. 

There was lamprey, turnips, and venison and barley stew with large loaves of crusty bread on the table, every plate held a different delicacy. Honey locusts sat in a bowl beside the Dragon Queen and thick slabs of boar ribs with apples sat before a very hungry Gendry. Arya licked her lips clean as she took another bite of her mutton chops. It was coated in a sauce of honey and cloves, a dish purely of the North that her father had favored for feasts. She was happy there were still those left in Winterfell who knew how to make the dish. 

Sansa had decided it would be ill-fitting to have a bedding ceremony. The Dragon Queen, and Arya, had both agreed. Arya had never liked the bedding ceremony, though she’d never actually seen one. She’d heard of them, but any wedding in Winterfell or the surrounding area had held the bedding ceremonies well after she was asleep. Braavos didn’t have a bedding ceremony in their culture, not that she had been free to go to weddings. Instead they danced and sang well into the night. At one point Tyrion was teaching Rickon a dance he learned when he was across the Narrow Sea with the Dragon Queen. Jaime was comparing blades with another of the Queensguard, the reinstated Barristan the Bold. Ser Barristan had greeted her happily when she saw him days before. He looked much older than she remembered, but then again, so did most everyone. 

While Gendry got to know his half-brother Edric Storm, Baratheon now although no one called him that, Arya danced with her brothers and other men of the North. She was never good at the dances Sansa was good at, the ones that involved long lines and special steps and formations. No, Arya was good at twirling and laughing and bounding about raucously. Her mother said she looked like a tiny, drunk squire when she danced although her father was always happy to dance with her. A few of the Mormont sisters were finger dancing and Arya playfully threw knives with them to cheers and pounding from lower tables. The Dragon Queen was eager to learn and Arya and the Mormont sisters happily taught her a few tosses which she insisted on practicing with a Dothraki girl she had with her. 

The night did eventually quiet down and when Gendry swept her into his arms and began to nuzzle her face she realized it was time for them to go as well. Sansa and Sandor had long left besides and the only ones who, it seemed to Arya, showed no signs of stopping were some the younger Northmen and the voracious Dragon Queen. Although there were others in the hall who still remained, they were more subdued. Both Tyrion and Jaime Lannister sat with Brienne of Tarth and some of the Queen’s Dothraki still drank and jested but Arya was in no mood for talking and had her fill of wine and mead. Even though Gendry was well in his cups, as evidenced by his ever more urgent displays of affection, she let him lead the way back to their room.

When he got them to their room he managed, but only just, to pry open the heavy door and toss Arya on their bed before falling on top of her. Since their first night in Winterfell Gendry had been delicate with his new wife, sating her hunger but doing so as tenderly as he could manage. While Arya loathed the idea that she would break she was also still new to lovemaking, regardless of her brazen attitude, and appreciated Gendry’s soft caresses and gentle kisses. This night though, she relished her husband’s fervor as he fell on her roughly and crushed her with his weight. 

He forcefully nipped and licked at her neck, causing her toes to curl in the silk slippers she’d worn for the occasion. She kicked them off hurriedly and bent her legs to run her feet up and down Gendry’s muscular calves. He tasted of the honey mead he’d been drinking at dinner when she nipped at his lower lip and he growled at her in turn, moving his mouth down her neck. She sighed and instead licked and sucked at the shell of ear he’d exposed to her and buried her face in his dark hair, breathing in deeply. He smelled of sweat and the ever present scent of forge fire and smoke that she had come to associate with him, the metallic tinge of fire and steel. She loved that smell. It reminded her of the nights she spent in his cot at the smithy in Harrenhal, or when he smithed for the Brotherhood and he would crawl into bed beside her at the end of the day and wrap her up in his thick arms. His large, callused hands slid roughly across her silk covered hips causing pangs of pleasure to tingle in her belly and spread across the whole of her body as he bunched the fabric at her waist and exposed her smallclothes. . His lips moved up from her neck, back to her mouth, and she gasped as his mouth covered hers and his tongue snaked past her teeth. 

“Gendry,” she moaned when he broke from her lips and she lifted her pelvis to meet the heavy weight of his hips. His fingers tangled in the ties of her dress and tugged at them impatiently while she writhed. When he pulled the strings free his fingers firmly gripped the shoulders of her dress and yanked them down to reveal her breasts, thus pinning her arms to her sides. He growled her name as he leaned over her and Arya arched her back as Gendry’s mouth covered one of her nipples and raked his teeth over it.

She felt the heat that had coiled in her belly slither into her sex and she instinctively knew her smallclothes would be damp with need. Gendry continued to lave at her tit, disregarding her desire to have him lower. She wriggled beneath him and took a deep breath through her nose, “please, please Gendry,” she begged. He growled again and roughly gripped her dress and dragged it further down, releasing her arms and effectively bunching the whole of the dress around her waist. He licked and nipped down her torso and Arya buried her fingers back in his hair as she surrendered to his touch. Once he reached her waist he moved over the remains of her silk dress and spread her thighs, which she’d been unconsciously rubbing together, in one swift move. Gripping her behind the knees he pulled her roughly to him and buried his face at the apex of her legs. Arya bucked instinctively and blushed in embarrassment as he breathed deeply. Suddenly his fingers were gripping the tops of her small clothes and ripping them away and down her legs. She was exposed for a moment as he fumbled with the laces of his breeches but was covered by his heat soon enough. 

He didn’t bother to remove his shirt but it hung open at the top, she’d unlaced it earlier on their way from the Great Hall. The laces dangled down and got caught between them as they came together. He pushed into her in one slick movement, causing Arya to cry out. There was no pain only the desperate need to reach that place of trembling and abandon she’d come to associate with sharing a bed with Gendry. She scrambled to pull the hem of his shirt up to stop it getting caught in their friction as he began to rock back and forth. Every time he pulled away she would arch up and wrap her legs tighter around his middle, pressing him back to her with the heels of her feet. Gendry grunted above her as he frantically thrust and she could see the beads of sweat dripping from the thick strands of hair that fell past his brow. She felt it coming before it was there, the sweet release she’d grown to want so desperately. Her body tightened like coil beneath him and likewise she could feel as Gendry’s pace became swifter and more erratic. 

Arya squeezed her eyes shut and gripped his broad shoulders, her nails digging into the flesh she found there, as the pleasure crested in her like a wave breaking against a Cliffside. She felt his seed fill her and in a hot rush her body clenched around him, throbbing. Every part of her, within and without, pulled him deeper and closer. 

When Gendry finally rolled away from her he looked so tired she didn’t begrudge him that he didn’t get a cloth to gently clean the insides of her thighs as he normally did, or even finish undressing before kissing her on the forehead and immediately falling asleep with one arm thrown over middle. She was, however, quite awake. A Lyseni friend of Leonessa’s had once told her that proper bedding had the opposite effect on women that it had on men. When a man finished he would be spent from spilling his seed-tired and slow to move at best, blissfully asleep and unawares in moments at worst. When a woman is properly satisfied she is left awake, her body thrumming with the aftershocks of pleasure and her blood running hot. Arya smiled as Gendry’s bicep twitched in his sleepy testament to the Lyseni’s words. 

The thick planks that covered the ceiling of the room were fresh and unweathered, Arya noticed the difference immediately. The thatch was changed every year by necessity but the wood, the wood that had been above this room when she’d slept in it last, had burned. Her bedroom from childhood, the one that she’d slept in the last sennight with her bastard blacksmith, had been a husk not so long ago. The charred, blackened shell had been all that remained for many turns of the moon. Bran told her, at her first meal upon her return, of how Winterfell looked after the Bastard of Bolton sacked it and took it from Theon Greyjoy. How the tower walls cracked from the heat and how water from the hot springs gushed from the broken rock. He described the blackened wood and ash strewn about the court yard and the smell of rot and burned flesh on the wintry winds. The bed she slept in was freshly bad and she could still see the black, greasy smudges on the walls from where the flames had licked them. This place may have been her home once, and the place Winterfell held in her heart would never be stolen from her, but Arya knew things had changed. She knew it just as she knew the winter would end, spring and summer would come, and winter would come again. 

In a few weeks time she would leave Winterfell and never again would she return but as a guest, Lady Arya of Storm’s End.


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tourney at Storm's End.

The wind rushed across the long grass and swept her hair about her head and across her brow. It was a beautiful day for a tourney, Arya thought, as she stared out over Shipbreaker Bay. There were beautiful gray and blue clouds cluttering the sky before her and strong winds, tinged with salt, rushing off the sea and up the rock face to sweep over the encampments and rebound harmlessly off the stalwart walls of Storm’s End. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and breathed in the sea salt air. It was cooler than the winds off the coast of Braavos, but it tasted the same on her tongue. A fortnight ago she received a raven from Bran, sent on the eve of their leaving for the Kingsroad and heading to Storm’s End for the tourney. They arrived last night. His letter, sent with a white raven, spoke of the fresh, thick winter snows and the boundless white of the North. He described how sky and land all blurred together to paint and endless sea of swirling snow and Arya cried. 

She missed the snow. 

They’d trudged through it to and from Sansa’s wedding but she hadn’t seen a speck of it in Braavos and she’d left Westeros before anything but a light flurry had touched the Neck. She wasn’t likely to see a more than a snow tinged gale in Storm’s End either. The Storm Land’s were in the alley of the South between the hot and sticky mountains of the Dornish Marches and the cooler, drier Reach. It was often warm and wet in the summer, explained Maester Allo to her when she arrived, and cool and wet in the winter but no where near the frigid cold of the North or the oppressive heat of Dorne or Braavos. At the time he had been surveying her impressive array of thick Northern clothes she’d brought from Winterfell and the few thin, airy garments she’d brought with her from her time across the Narrow Sea-none of which he seemed to deem fit for her time as a Lady of the Storm Lands. 

“My lady, shouldn’t you be in the castle, preparing for the tourney and arguing with my nephew?”

Arya swung her eyes and torso from the sight of the bay and back towards the voice that called out to her. 

“Yes.”

“Yet you’re out here, in training leathers?”

“I like the view, and I was training with Ser Jaime earlier this morning.”

“My brother does get up early, earlier than I ever did. I’m convinced it was all that time he spent in the Kingsguard before Robert took the throne-Aerys was an early riser as well. No rest for the wicked, I suppose.” Arya didn’t respond, she just turned back to the sea and let the Imp come up to stand beside her. “You look like Jon in those leathers, although you appear to be getting more use out of yours than he is as of late. What is that?”

He gestured to her stained jerkin with a sweep of his hand. Arya looked down at herself, admiring the smudges and smears, all in variations of brown, green, and black, before turning to him. 

“Mostly mud and blood I think,” she paused and pointed to a smudge of brown near her collar, “but this ones Meereenese chocolate I think.” She laughed. 

“We’ll make a lady out of you yet, Arya Stark.”

“Not bloody likely,” she replied with a smile. “You always call Gendry your nephew, why?”

Tyrion looked at Arya for a long time before answering. So long she wasn’t sure he would answer at all. “Robert was my good-brother, even if my sweet sister and he didn’t share any children. Gendry was his son and that boy needs a father. It’s unlikely any of the Baratheon men are going to climb from their graves so he’ll have to do with two incomplete uncles. I figure together we’re worth at least one decent man.”

“He likes you and Ser Jaime, you’re good men.” 

“Well, he is a good man, he’s what Robert should have been.”

“But wasn’t,” she finished for him.

“No, he wasn’t.” Arya looked away from the mismatched eyes of Tyrion Lannister and back out to the sea. “Why not?”

“For many reasons, none of which are a good excuse for the way he ruled, my sister was one of them, maybe Jaime, maybe me.” He looked at the ground before fixing his eyes on her face again at last. Tyrion brought fingers to her wrist and lifted her hand to his lips. “Gendry won’t be Robert, don’t fear that my Lady.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Of course you’re not. So, can we expect to see you in the melee, my Lady?”

She turned to him with a smirk, “I wouldn’t tell you if I was.”

“Wise decision. Can I escort you back to the castle, my Lady.”

She only turned and began striding in the direction of Storm’s End. The castle stood high over the many tents that lay between her and the gates. The gray stone of the walls looked pale compared to the bright silks of the banners and flags that flapped in the wind-the golden stag and grey direwolf of houses Stark and Baratheon flew highest of them all on the ramparts of Storm’s End. The rest flew beneath. The white stags, the black nightingales, the great horned owls and the battling swans from the Stormlands-there were flocks of ravens and fish of all types, red salmon, and crowned catfish, from the Riverlands. Arya’s eyes lingered on the crowned dragons of house Targaryan and the golden lions of Lannister but there were so many others, eagles and bears, beetles and dogs. Arya even saw a sea lion. All snapping in the strong gales that swept up from the bay-a veritable den of beasts sewn in silk, splattered with mud, baring their teeth. All come to honor the new Lord and Lady of Storm’s End. 

When she reached the gate Arya tilted her head up to the mid-morning sky to observe the blue clouds, fat with rain, hanging over the tourney grounds. Tyrion was beside her, she’d slowed her pace so as not to strain him. Her guards, which had hung back surreptitiously as she admired the bay earlier, moved ahead of her to clear their way back to the castle and then gathered in a semi-circle around her. The guard was a necessary annoyance that she didn’t mind as much as she thought she would. Her sister had offered for her to take some men from Winterfell with her to Storm’s End if she chose. She took two of the dozen or so that volunteered, one of those being Harwin. He’s protected her to the best of his ability when she was with the Brotherhood and he had returned to Winterfell and fought beside Jon during the Long Night and after the Burning. 

“Harwin, would you inform Gendry that I’ll meet with him at the start of the tourney, I have…something to take care of first. Harwin nodded and went on his way. Once Arya and Tyrion were safely inside the castle walls she dismissed her guard and told Tyrion she would see him at the tourney.

“You will indeed. Your Lord Gendry has, I think on the insistence of my dear brother, asked if I would honor him by speaking at his tourney.”

“You’re going to Herald?”

“Gods no, I’m not nearly tall enough. I’m just there to assist in Lord Gendry not making a fool of himself before court and the smallfolk.”

“He wouldn’t,” Arya started but Tyrion raised his hand.

“I know he wouldn’t, but he doesn’t yet. He’ll become more confident, give the boy some time.” Tyrion chose this moment to bow to Arya. “My lady, I shall look for you in the box.” 

Arya rolled her eyes, Tyrion had better manners than Sansa but it always seemed to be almost a mockery. 

He and Arya entered the central tower and parted, Tyrion headed to his chambers above the stables and Arya went in the opposite direction. She knew that many of the knights would be in the lists the knight she needed to see would go down at the last possible second to avoid close scrutiny. He was entered in the joust and that would be the last even of the day. Archery, the first event, she figured would be starting soon. That didn’t leave her much time.

When Arya finally left the castle she was met with deafening cheers and cat calls from the direction of the tourney grounds. She made her way, adjusting her uncomfortable bodice as she went, towards the box where she knew her husband would be sitting. 

Yellow, black, and grey banners topped the towers of the tourney grounds and snapped in the brisk winds off the bay. Arya headed straight for the open air box at the end of the grounds, it was edged in draping silks of black and grey with a bright yellow tend top on the back, protecting the occupants. 

Her Lord, sat in one of two chairs, carved specifically for them. His was wide and strong, like him. It had great antlers on the back that curved for forward over his head. Beside him sat an empty chair, smaller but just as strong. It had paws for legs and a beast of a direwolf howling on the back piece. Beside the chair lounged the beast it was modeled after. Nymeria laid still, Arya told her not to move with a flick of her wrist. Tyrion, Edric, and the Dragon queen sat to Gendry’s right and to the left of her chair were Sansa and Sandor Clegane. All of them were craned forward, staring intently at the melee, all but Sandor. He leaned back casually with his arms across his chest. As she crept forward she heard him mutter, “she ain’t there.”

Tyrion was in splendid red gold armour that Gendry had a hand in forging. He was whispering to the Dragon Queen and pointing to the field. Her violet eyes, the same color of her Essos styled dress, followed the melee rapidly. Sansa was staring at the field almost as intently as Gendry, although less obviously. Her eyes never blinked and her hands never stirred from her lap but Arya knew how Sansa’s lips parted, just so, whenever she was truly focused. She looked like their mother. 

Jon had offered earlier to take Rickon and Bran down to the lists to meet with the knights, which explained the few empty spaces near the back. She used these to hide herself as she crept forward. Arya made it so far into the box without notice, she snuck up between her own chair and Gendry’s, swiftly she leaned forward to place her lips beside his ear. 

“Looking for someone?” 

Gendry stood so fast he almost knocked his chair over.

“Arya!” Sansa shouted, standing up in a flurry of motion and swirling skirts. 

“Where have you been?” Gendry whispered, ignoring Sansa’s outburst. His face was concerned but his voice was more strained then she expected.

Sandor leaned back and slung his arm over the back of Sansa’s chair, “I told you she wasn’t down there,” he said gruffly.

Sansa smacked him. 

There was laughter all around but Arya cut her own short when she noticed how angry Gendry looked. “Why are you so mad,” she asked, plopping into her seat. “It took a really long time for me to get ready.”

“Oh, is that it? You were getting ready? All through Archery, you were getting ready? While we waited for you? And then, you weren’t here when the melee started. I thought you might actually be down there-fighting!” His whispers increased in volume as he spoke. “Where have you been? Where have you been really, Arya?”

“I told you, it took me a long time to get into this stupid thing.” She gestured down to the dark blue dress she was wearing. It had irritating boning in the bodice and was hemmed in a delicate cream silk. She’d warned them she would get it dirty but they hadn’t listened. Around her neck was a pendent, a wolf and stag in a heart fashioned from antlers. It was iron, like her Braavosi coin. It as the first thing Gendry forged at Storm’s End. “Why would you think I was fighting in the melee?”

“You bloody love the melee! You think I haven’t noticed how hard you have been training with Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne? The secret trips to the armory? What have you got Ser Robyn making for you? He won’t tell me and I’m his Lord, Arya.” He stopped and his face scrunched up, his brows knitting together and his mouth turning down. “Wait, what were you doing if you weren’t trying to get ready for the melee?” 

“Why aren’t you in the melee?” She said, “you’re better with an hammer than any of these knights are with a sword.”

“Allo wouldn’t let me,” he replied, his voice gruff and his eyes downcast.

Arya smiled and pointed at the tourney grounds, causing him to turn his head. Everyone else in the box had already turned back to the melee to watch as a single knight finished off the remaining combatants. “Looks like you have a winner, my Lord.” 

The knight stepped forward and stood before the box. Gendry stood and went to the rail. He was silent. Arya starred at his back urging him to speak. Finally, to her relief, he did. “Congratulations, Brienne of Tarth. You fought valiantly.” Arya knew Brienne would win, she had watched Brienne and trained with her. She was the most capable fighter Arya had ever witnessed in Westeros.

“She did indeed, well fought my Lady,” Tyrion said, standing up beside Gendry. 

Brienne removed her helm, “Thank you, My Lord!” 

“No, thank you, we shall see you after the joust, my Lady.”

The large woman nodded to the box, her short blond hair tumbling into her eyes, and walked off the tourney grounds. 

Once the fallen knights from the melee were also cleared off the field a group of young men, knights, and squires flooded the field. A few sandwiches were brought into the box for the Lords and Ladies to eat as the grounds before them were transformed for the joust. Arya could hear the shouts of vendors join the cacophony as observers left their seats to find refreshment as well before the joust began. The sandwiches and Brienne’s win successfully distracted Gendry from his line of questioning, that and Tyrion’s running commentary on the Tourney for the Dragon Queen. Daenarys was unfamiliar with the particulars and hadn’t bothered to have a Tourney in Kings Landing upon her acceptance of the Iron Throne. It’s a good thing because Arya’d never really thought about what she would tell him. Truthfully, she hadn’t even realized he noticed her slipping away to train and checking in with their smith. 

She thought Gendry had been too busy, he’d been hard at work since they arrived learning how to be a good Lord for Storm’s End. She helped as much as she could, which was fairly a lot, but Allo had done much of the training. Gendry was doing well from what she could see. The small folk loved him, all the Lords of the Storm Lands were in attendance at the Tourney and to Arya they all looked to be having a fine time. She’d heard that Gendry had done well in all councils and Arya herself saw that he knew about the land and the basic up keep of a large castle. She didn’t think he’d had time to spy on her and he hadn’t asked her any leading questions. In fact, she thought, he had shown more restraint than she thought possible.

Once the joust was set the final event of the tourney began. Arya had always preferred the melee to the joust but she had to admit, there was something more personal about the joust that she admired. It made her think of valor and the years before the war. Arya willed her mind to relax during the joust. She simply cheered and laughed, ate and drank with her neighbors. Gendry was not drinking too much, thankfully, but Tyrion, Daenarys and Sandor were all well in their cups by the start of the final event. The crowd grew louder as the joust continued, each fall earning another ear-deafening cheer. After some 15 matches two squires swept the field for splinters from the numerous broken lances. And when the two remaining knights entered the field, Arya held her breath. 

A tall knight in dirty armour, a mystery knight, had made it through to the final match. He was jousting against a valiant and well-sat knight from the Neck, a Ser Oswin of House Cewffle. He had shiny armour, dented on the breast plate from an earlier tilt, and his lance was green with a ribbon of light blue wrapped around the length. His shield was quartered the same colors and in the right quadrant there was a willow tree. 

The mystery knight, Arya noticed, had a plan black shield and a lance that was also painted black. It had no decoration save for a short blue ribbon tied to the tip, a favour. Arya’s heart beat wildly as the first tilt started. It was over in a matter of seconds. 

A hit for both. 

The second tilt started in a matter of minutes and the mystery knight unseated Ser Oswin with an easy sweep of his lance. 

The crowd roared. 

Not one person remained seated, except Ser Oswin, who lay on his back for several seconds after falling from his mount and was only able to leave the field with help from several squires. 

Ser knight, let us see you face so that we may award you!” Tyrion shouted down to the field but the knight left his helm in place. Gendry stepped up to the rail and stood beside Tyrion. 

“Winners,” he shouted over the din of the crowd, “you have done well today and have earned our gratitude. Ser Ossifer, for your fortitude with a bow this afternoon, may I present to you a gift?” Gendry made a sweeping motion with his hand, which Arya noticed up close was shaking but doubted anyone else did. 

A young boy brought Ser Ossifer a bow made of Weirwood and a small pouch. “We are honoured to grant you a bow hewn from a Weirwood, for you to practice your craft, and fifteen gold dragons!” 

The crowd cheered and Ser Ossifer accepted his gifts with many thanks and kneeled before the box where he would remain until the end of the ceremony. Next Brienne stepped forward. 

“My Lady Brienne, you fought valiantly and well today, no less than I would have expected. Please except my gift, a donation from the Lord and Lady of Winterfell. It is called Oathkeeper, as I believe you are aware.” Arya smiled. Oathkeeper was a sword of Valyrian steel and one of the finest, most well crafted, in all of Westeros. 

“My Lord,” Brienne began but faltered, “thank you. And thank you Lord Sandor and Lady Sansa. I swear to you this sword will never harm a member of your house.” She took the sword solemnly and kneeled.

“You are very welcome,” Sansa said with a smile. 

She had told Arya upon their arrival of another sword, said to have been forged from pieces of their father’s greatsword, Ice. It had come into Sansa and Sandor’s possession not long after their wedding. It was a sword Sansa remembered being forged for Joffrey in Kings Landing, he’d called it Widow’s Wail. Wanker.

Really, Winterfell needed only one sword and the newly named blade, Lady, would do just fine. Arya had laughed when she heard the name but quickly remembered her father and his last moments with Sansa’s wolf, and knew the title was perfect. She thanked Sansa before informing Gendry who was also thrilled. The prize was contingent on Brienne winning the melee. If she had not the winner would receive 30 gold dragons and the promise of new armour, forged by Lord Gendry’s personal smith. Although, most probably, forged by Lord Gendry himself. The smallfolk were already gossiping at how well their new Lord worked a piece of metal, it wouldn’t cause any harm.

“And finally, our mystery knight, a gift for you is in order. Please except our gratitude and our offer of 50 gold dragons. I also ask you to accept this dagger of Dragon Glass, one of the only ones you’ll find south of the Neck and deadly sharp. Though before you receive your gifts I believe it is your duty to name the Queen of Love and Beauty!” The crowd was back to roaring by the time Gendry finished speaking. “But first, your helm!” 

They stamped their feet and cheered as the knight, who had failed to remove his helm or his shield, stood silent before the box. When he finally removed his helm there was an audible gasp.

“The winner of the joust is Ser Jaime Lannister!” Tyrion was standing on his pedestal next to the banister, shouting down to the field. “Brother! You performed well today!” 

“Thank you, brother.” Ser Jaime replied as a squire helped to remove the shield that had been strapped to his right arm. 

Cheers came from everywhere, including the box. Queen Daenarys, and Sansa too, were shouting, “well fought!” While Sandor and Edric merely clapped and nodded. 

Once the crowd quieted somewhat Gendry made himself heard over the crowd. “Ser Jaime! You are the winner of the Joust and the Champion of my Tourney. Do you accept our gifts today?”

Jaime was supposed to say, ‘Thank you, my Lord.’ But instead he said, “No.”

The crowd grew silent.

“I am sorry, Lord Gendry, you have always been a good friend to me, but I don’t need money and I don’t need anew dagger.”

Gendry faltered. “What-what is it you would have of me then?”

“Of you, nothing, but something instead of Queen Daenarys, if I may?”

Daenarys stood, her white blond hair rushed around her face and head in the wind. 

“Of course, Ser Jaime, you are of my Queensguard and the champion of this tournament. What would you have of me?”

“I ask to be relieved of my vows. You offered it once, when you took the Iron Throne, and I was too proud to accept. Now I ask your Grace, please release me from your Queensguard.”

He bowed his head. His green eyes were staring at the rich, black dirt of the field when she answered.

“When I was Khaleesi, I had a special guard. They were my life, my blood. When I accepted you into my Ka, you too became blood of my blood. I could never hold you too your vow if it was not what you wanted in your heart. Your request is granted but on one condition, you remain long enough for me to choose a replacement.”

The crowd roared again and Jaime smiled back, a smile larger than Arya had ever seen.

“Thank you, your Grace.”

A squire ran out and handed Jaime a crown of flowers. Arya recognized buttercups and snow drops among then blooms but it would have been impossible to name them all. 

“And now, for my Queen of Love and Beauty!” His cry brought a cheer once again from the stands but all was quiet as he surveyed the crowd. “I see many here who would do honour to the title.”

He walked back and forth before finally stopping back before the box Arya sat in. 

“I see three such beauties in this box alone, and yet each and every one is taken.” He was back standing where he’d been originally, in front of the other two other champions. “It’ll have to be the wench, then.” He casually placed the crown on the head of the kneeling knight beside him. Brienne looked up, blushing furiously as Ser Jaime pulled her to her feet.

“Our Queen of Love and Beauty, the Lady Brienne of Tarth!” Tyrion shouted before the field erupted with applause.

Gendry held her hand as they exited the box and headed back to the castle for the feast. The sun was going down and Arya was positively starving.

“Do you think,” Gendry leaned over and asked her as they walked, “we’ll be invited to a wedding at Evenfall Hall soon?”

“Sooner rather than later,” she replied.

“Why that?” He stopped at the entrance to the hall.

“What?” She said, adjusting her bodice irritably. Her stupid clothes grew tighter across her bosom everyday.

“Why sooner?”

“Oh. Because,” Arya said once her dress was comfortable again, “once I start showing you won’t let me out of your sight until the baby is born.”

When the doors to the hall were flung open the crowd was greeted with the sight of their new Lord kissing his Lady wife with more exuberance then they had yet seen.


End file.
